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AGNES HILTON: 


OR, 


p'ractical views of catholicity. 


A TALE OP 


TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS. 



0 ^ * ■ 


NEW YORK: 

P. O’SHEA, 104 BLEEOKER STREET. 
1864. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 
4,, ^ ' By P. O’SHEA, 

In the Clerk’s OflSce of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New York. 




^ r. 


f ' 
; . 


r 







a A. ALVORD, STEREOTYPBB AND PRIKTEB, 


J 



CHAPTER I. 


Agnes Hilton’s home was situated in a fashionable part 

of the city of A . Her parents were wealthy, and she 

moved in society with a proud, lofty bearing that told of 
conscious superiority. Whether it belonged to her nature, 
or was the effect of the flattery and homage paid to her as 
a wealthy and beautiful heiress, it was impossible to say ; 
but there was an imperiousness about her that strangely 
contrasted with her mother’s gentle bearing, and her father’s 
pleasant, unassuming manners. In the presence of mere 
acquaintances she took but little pains to render herself 
agreeable, treating them with a coldness that forbade their 
too often intruding themselves upon her. She numbered 
but few in her list of intimate friends, but, with all her pride, 
these few were chosen, not because they offered adulation 
at her shrine, but because she saw in them qualities really 
commendable. Her mind was of a reflective cast; she 
cared not for the gay routine of pleasure. While others 
were toiling and wearing themselves out in the dissipations 
of fashionable life, she would be in her own room, poring 
over some favorite volume, engaged with her tapestry, prac- 
tising some difficult piece, or, crayon in hand, trying to 
reproduce on paper some of the fanciful visions that flitted 
through her brain, or copying some of the gems she had 
carefully gathered together. Her portfolio was filled with 


6 


AGNES ; OE, 


these drawings, while the pencilling in her books proved 
her library was not for mere show. Her character Avould 
have been irreproachable had it not been for pride, which 
cast a shade over all the finer qualities of her heart, and 
made her tenacious of her own will, haughty, and exacting. 
Glancing round her elegantly furnished room, 3^ou saw hung 
on the walls pictures which spoke in eloquent language to 
the soul of the humble duties of a Christian. Turning to 
her books, you read the names of the works intended to 
raise the mind from the fleeting vanities of the world, and 
impress upon it the great truths that without humility 
none can be pleasing to God. ' 

I have said that she numbered but few in her list of 
intimate friends, but in this list was one to whom, more 
than the rest, she was deeply attached : it was Becky Starr, 
Together had they received their education ; placed at the 
same time at St. Teresa’s, their academical course finished, 
at the same time they entered society. Having mentioned 
her as Agnes’s particular friend, I may as well here slightly 
sketch her character. She was grave, thoughtful, and 
pious, — just such a companion as one in sorrow would long 
to have ; her gentle care, still, quiet ways, and sensible con-, 
versation could not but have a soothing effect upon the 
most despondent. On the morning on which our story 
opens she had called to see Agnes, to bid her “ good-by,” 
previous to starting for her uncle’s, in the country. 

“ I thought,” said Agnes, in a slightly reproachful tone, 
“ that you would surely spend a day with me before 
going.” 

“ And so I intended, but grandfather and grandmother 
are so anxious to see me that I cannot wait.” 

“ Pardon me, Becky, if I speak too plain, but I don’t see 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


1 


how you can enjoy yourself in their society. That grand-' 
father of yours has always seemed to me stem'> and disa- 
greeable.’’ 

“ His heart has been for many years embittered.” 

“ By the conversion of his children ?” 

“Yes, Agnes; grandfather is not what he was before.” 
She reached forth her hand to take up her bonnet, and 
Agnes said : 

“ Don’t think of going yet ; wait till mother coiiies in.” 

“ How long will she be out ?” 

“ Only for a short time. I expect her every minute.” 

“I will wait,” she said, replacing her bonnet on the 
table. would not like to leave the city without seeing 
her.” 

“And Vv'hile waiting,” rejoined Agnes, “tell me how your 
grandparents’ children became converted, when they were 
so prej^udiced.” 

“ I never told you ?” 

“ No, you never did ; and you have always been so 
silent on the subject that I have never had courage to ask 
you.” 

“ Grandfather and grandmother, Agnes, are of the stern. 
Puritanical class, and have always entertained for the Catho- 
lic religion the utmost abhorrence ; their children embraced 
it, and from that they looked upon them as marked for per- 
dition. In proportion to their love, so was their grief; but 
I will not dwell upon it. You wished to hear how their 
children became converted, when their parents w^ere so in- 
veterate. I never told you, for I thought it useless to be 
dwelling on such a subject. It was better to talk of other 
things, passing that over ; but now, as brother Walter has 
confided to me that you are soon to become a member of 


8 


AGNES; OEj 


' our family, soon to be numbered among tbeir grandchildren, 
[ think it 'as well that you should know it.” 

A crimson hue dyed Agnes’s cheek, but, making no re- 
mark, Becky went on : 

“At the age of seventeen uncle was placed in a school 
about eighty miles from home. Father and mother resi- 
ding in the same place, he boarded with them. He had 
attended the academy but three years, when, at a protracted 
meeting, his curiosity was excited to know if all alleged 
against the Catholic religion was true, and what it had to 
say in its own defence. A few Catholics had moved in. 
And as usual, under the guidance of their priest, they were 
erecting a little church. He saw these children of toil 
cheerfully foregoing many a comfort, generously giving 
their mite, and, where they could obtain a day’s respite 
from their employers, devoting it to labor on their church, 
and he felt a pity for them. What sneers, what taunts 
they bore ! Ever ready to obey in all things else, how un- 
swerving in their affection to their faith ! From the priest 
he borrowed several volumes, and in the evenings, after 
attending to the lessons for the next day, repairing to the 
sitting-room, he would read aloud from them to mother 
and father. Soon pity and idle curiosity merged in one 
intense desire for the welfare of their souls, to kno^v the 
truth. Volume after volume was eagerly read, several con- 
versations they had with the priest, and, to be brief, seven 
months from the time uncle attended the protracted meet- 
ing, father, mother, and he were baptized and received in- 
to the Church.” 

“And your grandparents, how did they receive the 
news ?” 

“Just as you might expect they would. Grandfather 


VIEWS OE CATHOLICITY. 


0 


wrote at once, ordering uncle’s immediate return home. 
With a heavy heart he obeyed the summons. Grandfather 
met him with stern reproaches; but grandmother, more 
gentle in her nature, pressed him to her heart, and wept 
oyer him, as a fond mother would weep over a loved but 
lost child. I need not dwell on the first few years that 
followed ; suflBce it to say, possessing much of his father’s 
passionate nature, uncle found it difficult to repress the 
indignant replies that would rise to his lips upon hearing 
some peculiarly taunting remark about his adopted faith. 
As to reason, grandfather would hear nothing of that ; he 
must have all the talk to himself. Did he not know per- 
fectly well that the Catholic Church was a sink of utter 
abominations ? Who would dare to contradict him ? or 
rather, who could convince him to the contrary ? Could 
Walter, a mere child ? Grandfather always looked upon 
his children as children. He could not realize that a few 
short years had changed his little boy and girl into a man 
and woman — sensilble beings, capable of knowing and judg- 
ing for themselves, and capable, too, from the light which 
had been granted them, of guiding and directing him into a 
path leading to peace and rest.” 

“ Was your uncle’s wife converted before or after her 
marriage ?” 

“ Aunt Fanny ! oh, she was always a pious Catholic ; 
uncle became acquainted with her while on a visit to our 
house. In a few months they were married, and he brought 
her to his home. At first, grandfather paid her only the 
coldest attention ; but her respectful bearing and soothing 
kindness soon won him to look more kindly upon her, 
while grandmother learned to love her as she had once 

loved mother.” 

1 * 


10 


AGNES; OE, 


“ Once, Becky, once ? That sounds as if that feeling 
towards your mother had grown cold, was dead !” 

A great gravity rested on Becky’s face. “ Cold, Agnes,” 
she said, “ but not dead. From the time of mother’s con- 
version grandfather and grandmother never visited her, and 
when she went out to the old homestead, which she did 
once or twice a year, grandfather was cold and distant and 
grandmother silent and sorrowful. But dear aunt Fanny, 
what an angel of peace she proved to be ! She taught uncle 
to bear more patiently the asperity of his father. ‘ Don’t 
mind it ;’ she would say ; ‘ Don’t retort ; he is your father, 
and you must bear with him.’ ‘But he goads me so,’ 
uncle would answer, ‘ he is so tyrannical, and speaks so bit- 
terly of what he knows nothing about.’ ‘But, Walter,’ 
then she would reply, ‘ ^e patient ; words here are out of 
place. When you feel like retorting sharply, say a little 
prayer. Prayer will do every thing ; words will only make 
the breach wider.’ And so dear aurit taught him to bear 
patiently ; to have recourse to prayer in all his troubles. 
Imperceptibly, a change came over grandfather and grand- 
mother ; with the old kindness they received mother on her 
visits, and at the end of one returned home with her. Since 
then they have spent two or three months every year at our 
house. On their last visit they seemed more gloomy and 
restless than ever ; they stayed most of the time in their 
room, poring over the books they had brought with them.” 
Becky suddenly paused, and a deep shade rested on hef 
thoughtful face. 

“ But,” said Agnes, greatly interested, “did they seem 
in no way relenting in their dislike to our religion ?” 

“ I don’t know,” replied Becky, her eyes filling ; “ don’t 
ask me. More than ever they now stand in need of prayer. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


11 


I am going to be with them this winter, and, oh, Agnes, 
by the Sacred tie that is soon to bind you to our family, 
I beg you to remember them in your prayers.” 

“ In my po^r prayers they shall not be forgotten,” said 
Agnes, in a low voice, bowing her head, and letting the dark 
ringlets fall over her face to hide her blushes. A step was 
heard ascending the stairs. 

“ That is mother I” she exclaimed, rising and walking to 
the door. “ Mother, Becky Starr is in, and has waited to 
see you.” 

“ Ah 1 indeed, dear Becky,” said Mrs. Hilton, entering 
the room, and warmly shaking her hand, “ I am sorry I 
stayed out so long.” 

“ And I am glad, mother. By your delay I have had all 
the longer call.” 

“ But, Becky,” asked Mrs. Hilton, seating herself beside 
her, and still retaining her hand, “ is it really true that you 
arc so soon going to your uncle’s ?” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Hilton ; I start to-morrow.” 

“ Why not stay with us till after Christmas ?” 

“ Oh, grandfather and grandmother could not think of my 
waiting till then ; they are very lonely, and I must hasten 
to’ them.” 

“ Well, Becky,” rejoined Mrs. Hilton, “ I have heard the 
pious hope that prompts your going, and may God bless you, 
and grant it may be realized.” 

“Thank you,, Mrs. Hilton,” she replied, her voice quite 
tremulous, “ and you, too, will pray for them.” 

“ I will, Becky, I will — but you are not going so soon?” 
she asked, seeing her draw up her cloak from the back of 
the chair. 

“ Yes, Mrs.Hilton ; I have stayed so long that some of my 


12 


AGl^ES 1 OE, 


other calls will have to be very short, if not entirely put off ; 
but have you seen Edith Carter, since her return ?” 

“Yes, I was there this morning.” 

“ How does she seem ?” 

“ Quite feeble, but better than when she first reached 
home.” 

“ Ah, poor Edith ! I fear she has reached home only to 
die.” 

“ I fear the same,” said Agnes ; “ she has all the appear- 
ance of one in a decline.” 

Becky had now drawn on her gloves, and Agnes and 
Mrs. Hilton accompanied her to the door. 

“ Agnes,” she said, kissing her cheek, “ remember your 
promise.” 

“ I will, dear Becky, I will,” she replied, pressing her to 
her heart. 

A warm embrace from Mrs. Hilton, a God-speed-you on 
your pious mission, and, seated in her carriage, she was 
borne rapidly away. 

Mrs. Hilton and Agnes had returned to the room of the 
latter,* and were engaged in conversation, when the door 
opened and a pale, interesting-looking girl, dressed in black, 
entered. An instant change came over Agnes ; the genial 
expression faded from her face; raising her eyes, she sur- 
veyed the intruder with a cold, disdainful glance. 

“Well, Martha!” said Mrs. Hilton, kindly. 

“ Yesterday, Mrs. Hilton, you spoke of a pattern for a 
pair of slippers you wished me to work.” 

“Yes, Martha, I recollect, and you will find it on the 
table.” 

She pointed to where Agnes was sitting. With a light, 
timid, and withal graceful step, the girl approached the 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


id 


table. Agnes’s elbow rested upon it and partially covered 
the pattern ; for awhile she stood silently waiting for her 
to raise her arm, and then in a low, sweet voice said : 

“ JNIiss Agnes, the pattern is under your arm.” Slowly 
the arm was raised, Martha took up the pattern, and in her 
agitation let fall a book. A crimson glow swept over her 
pale face ; hastily stooping, she picked it up, and replaced 
it on the table. Agnes favored her with another cold, dis- 
dainful glance, and with that glance chilling her very heart, 
she turned and walked out of the room. In our next chap- 
ter we will go to the home of the sewing-girl. 




,'V 


CHAPTER II. 


It was a poor, dilapidated house in a narrow lane ; no 
curtains shaded the small windows through which the cold, 
glaring sun came mockingly in. A table stood in the mid- 
dle of the room, with — we cannot say the remains of the 
last meal, for the meal had been too scant to have any 
remains — but with the soiled cups and plates still unremov- 
ed; the cold stove looked as’ if it had never known what it 
was to have a good fire blazing and burning within it ; 
back by the wall was an old scuttle, in which were a few 
coals, evidently placed there away from the stove, lest too 
close proximity might tempt to using them before the time 
to heat the teakettle for the next meal came round. On a 
little bench sat a pale, thin-faced child of seven or eight 
years. An old, threadbare coat, very much too 'large, was 
wrapped around him, completely covering, or rather bury- 
ing him in its ample folds. After one or two ineffectual 
attempts he succeeded in disengaging his little hands, and 
then smoothed back the golden locks from his broad, hand- 
some brow. On the floor were two little girls, one five, 
the other three. They were playing with bits of cloth and 
shreds of ribbons, ever and anon pausing to look up in the 
face of a middle-aged woman sitting by the window, sewing- 
on a jacket as fast as her hand could fiy. She had on a 
faded dress of mourning, and her countenance looked sor- 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


15 


ow-stricken and worn. On a bed in one corner was lying 
4 boy of fifteen or sixteen years. He was very pale, and 
with the supken eyes closed, the chin slightly fallen, 
the ashen lips parted, displaying the large even teeth, a 
looker-on might have congratulated himself that the vital 
spark had fled — that the spirit had found a happier home. 
But his languid eyes opened, and a groan escaped his lips. 
His mother started and exclaimed : 

“ Oh, Alfred, that pain has again awakened you !” 

“No, mother, no, I was not asleep,” he sorrowfully 
replied. 

“ Not asleep, Alfred ! I thought you were, you lay so 
^uiet.” 

“ I know it, but I only had my eyes closed, thinking of 
the time we lived in Stanton, and it all came back so plain, 
that I thought this poor, cold room was only a dream, but 
d opened ray eyes, and oh, mother, it wasn’t, it wasn’t !” 
Clasping his hands, he cried : “ What a change since father 
died, what a change !” and sobs choked the further utter- 
ance of the poor, sick boy. 

“ Oh, Alfred, dear Alfred,” said his mother, while unbidden 
trars came into her eyes ; “ your father was too good to be 
lefl} here to sufifer. He was called home to heaven — to 
heaven,” she slowly repeated, dropping her needle and press- 
ing her hand upon her heart to keep down its tumultuous 
throbbings. Then, after a moment’s pause, she added : 

“ .But, Alfred, be patient ; God will not forget us.” 

“Forget us!” he exclaimed, starting up and looking 
wildly around, “ why, mother, it seems we are already for- 
gotten.” • ' 

“No, Alfred, don’t say that ; God is so good and merciful, 
he sends us these trials to disengage our minds from the 


16 


AGKES; OE, 


world, and prepare us for heaven; his beautiful heaven, 
child. You remember when, in Stanton, we used to read of 
it, and think we could even suffer martyrdom fo show our 
love and gratitude to our dear Lord, who came on earth 
and died that we might enjoy it. And now, when pain and 
suffering come upon us, shall we murmur and repine j” 

“ Oh, mother, I don’t want to murmur, but — oh, it is so 
much easier to talk of pain than it is to suffer it.” 

“ But, Alfred, dear, any paih or trial sent by God, if we 
only bear it with patience and resignation, will be showing 
the same love as if we died for hini.” 

“ Why, mother !” he exclaimed, forgetting, in his surprise, 
the great weakness that a moment before had gathered 
round his heart ; “ your words seem so strange, I will not 
say irreverent — but, mother, to compare our trials to 
martyrdom seems — seems so presumptuous.” 

Pausing an instant iji her sewing, she fixed a steadfast 
gaze upon him ; perceiving the conversation was not weary- 
ing him, she said : 

“ Alfred, I have often wished in this sickness to tell you 
my thoughts on this subject, for it seems they were sug- 
gested by my good angel, to strengthen and comfort me. 
You have been so weak, that I have not dared to dwell on 
any subject, or use more words than were absolutely neces- 
sary. But now I see you are able to hear me, and I will 
speak.” 

“ Yes, do, mother, do tell me something that will comfort 
me too ; for, oh, how sad, how stricken, I feel !” His large 
eye looked haggard and wild. The little boy on the bench 
moved nearer, and, bending over, with his elbows on his 
knees and his chin resting on his tiny palms, fixed his blue 
eyes w'onderingly upon her, listening intently to what she 


VIEWS OF CATHpLICITT. 


17 


was about to say. Newly threading her needle, she com- 
menced: 

“ Alfred, a martyr suffers death through love of God, 
and rather than consent to an act displeasing to him ; in 
other w'ords, rather than do any thing that would oflfend 
him.” 

“ Yes, mother, but — ” 

“ Wait, my child, wait. If now, through the same love 
of God, and through fear of offending him, we suffer our 
trials and afflictions with patience and resignation, is it not 
the same spirit which leads one to martyrdom ? is it not, 
my child, the same ?” 

He paused & moment before replying, and then slowly 
said : “ In the way in which you present it to my view, it 
really does seem so, mother ; but — ” placing his hand upon 
his heart, “ I wish I could make it seem so here.” He 
raised himself on his elbow and gazed round the desolate 
room ; a wintry smile lit up his wan countenance. 

“ Oh, mother,” he bitterly exclaimed, “ to talk of glorious 
martyrdom and joyous heaven in this wretched, wretched 
home of poverty !” 

“ Why not, my child ?” she asked, in her kindest and 
most soothing tones. “ Is it not the very place to talk of 
them ? Has Alfred forgotten the cold little stable of Beth- 
leh^, and the poor, comfortless home of Egypt ? No, no, 
Alfred, poverty itself can never exclude us from heaven. 
One single sin may forever close its gates, but, let us be 
ever so poor and wretched, we still have just as great a claim 
to heaven as the richest ; perhaps even greater ; remember 
Lazarus.” 

Clasping her thin hands, while a smile played over her 
worn features, she continued : 


18 


A^NES; OE, 


“ It raaj come upon ns — poverty rnay — with such crush- 
ing force that we will have to lie down and die; but then it 
will be our path to heaven, our road home. Home ! Oh, 
Alfred, what comfort in that word ! There we will meet 
father, mother, sisters, brothers, and all will bb joy and hap- 
piness. Every tear will be wiped away, and all the sorrow 
and wretchedness of the way-side forgotten. Yes, Alfred, 
from this very room, so poor and cold, we may go to a home • 
all beautiful and bright.” With a hurried hand she resum- 
ed her sewing. Alfred was silent, but the cloucl had pass- 
ed from his brow. After awhile he spoke : 

“ Mother, how much good your words have done me ! 
They remind me of what Father J oseph said*to father when 
he was sick.” 

“What was it, my child?” 

“ Father had had one of his bad turns, and when he got 
able to speak he said, * Oh, father, what have I ever done that 
I should suffer so ?’ and Father Joseph, without a bit of that 
severity he puts on when he thinks one is saying or doing 
any thing wrong, told him it was not a question of what he 
had or had not done, but that he was in that narrow path 
where the briers overhead, underneath, and o^ each side 
were reaching out their arms to block up the way, but that 
he must not give up and be conquered, but urge right on, 
and, by and by, the road would lead to so beautiful and 
happy a home, that he would forget all about the briers and 
thorns of the way-side, and only rejoice that by any means 
at all he was able to reach so blessed and soul-resting a place. 
Father smiled, and the smile was like a ray of sunshine 
breaking through a bleak November day. Father Joseph 
sat by his bed and talked on. By and by, father smiled 
again, and, kissing his crucifix, said, ‘Very true, father, I 


TIE’'v'rS OF CATHOLICITY. 


19 


can’t suffer too much to gain that blessed home.’ And, 
mother, I feel so too.” 

Resolutely putting back the tears, and forcing herself to 
calmness of voice, she replied : 

“ And this feeling, Alfred, brings with it a great peace, 
and banishes that feeling of wicked sore rebellion ?” 

“ Yes, mother, yes.” 

“ Thank God, my child, thank God ! And now, with 
your heart soothed and rested, don’t talk any more, lest you 
get too wearied, but let me arrange your pillow so that you 
can lie back and rest.” She arose, and shaking up the small 
pillow, placed it under his head, smoothed the scanty bed- 
clothes, and resumed her sewing. She had taken but a few 
stitches when little Mark directed her attention to the 
younger of the two children, who was lying fast asleep on 
the floor, her head resting on her tiny arm. Tenderly lift- 
ing her up, she carried her to a cot-bed, sunk in a recess, 
and placed her upon it. As she gazed on its sweet, inno- 
cent face, nature for a moment gained the ascendency, and 
a pang shot through her heart, that, she had not the time to 
tend and fondle it as of old. A tear filled her eye and fell 
upon its cheek ; quickly repressing the vain regret, she care- 
fully wiped it off, kissed the place where it had been, and, 
hastening to her seat by the window, resumed her sewing. 

Little Ellen came up, and, leaning heavily against her 
knee, with touching earnestness asked : 

“ Oh, mother, have we nothing, nothing to eat ?” 

“ Wait, my love, wait. Mother will soon have this done, 
and then she’ll go out and get something for her little dears. 
Yes,” she continued, rather speaking aloud her thoughts 
than addressing herself to the understanding of the child, 
“ Mr. Simonds will pay me three shillings for this, and that 


20 


AGNES ; OE, 


will buy a chicken for Alfred and a loaf of bread; and I 
have some salt and a bit of butter left to season it with, 
while the coals there in the scuttle will cook it. Ah yes,” 
she said, looking down smilingly on the child, “ little Ellen 
shall have a fine dinner,” glancing at the shadow on the 
wall ; “ rather late, but then little Ellen shall have her bread 
wet in the chicken broth, and that will be so nice.” 

“ Oh, mother,” she exclaimed, with childish impatience, 
“ I wish I had it now.” 

“Well, let me see; one, two, thr>e, four, five, six, seven 
buttons, and then it will be done.” And, though her coun- 
tenance grew paler, her hand went faster. 

At last it was finished. Rising, she hastily folded it, 
bade little Mark if Alfred, who had fallen asleep, should 
waken before her return, tell him she had taken home the 
vest ; and she added, a triumphant smile playing over her 
. pale face, “ tell him, too, I shall bring him back a chicken.” 

She then wrapped around her a mourning shawl, much 
too thin for the inclement season, and, putting on a poor- 
looking bonnet, walked into the alley, soon reached the 
street, and in a few minutes was standing by the counter in 
Mr. Simonds’s store. He unrolled the garment, carefully 
examined it, and handed her another bundle to make up ; 
then going to his drawer, counted out eighteen pence and 
laid it on the counter before her. 

What did he mean ? Did he not owe her three shillings ? 
• But before she had time to put these questions into word 
form he had turned and was waiting on a customer. She 
waited till he got through, and when he glanced at her, as 
much as to say : “ Why do you loiter ? what more do you 
want ?” she timidly said : “ Sir, I believe there is eighteen 
pence more coming. It was three shillings.” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


21 


Wheeling round abruptly, be replied, “ Three shillings ! 
I know very well it was three shillings, but I paid you half 
in advance.” 

Ah, sure he had ; and it went towards paying rent for her 
little room, which debt being off her mind, in her great anx- 
iety to get something nourishing for her poor sick child, she 
had quite forgotten. After a moment’s hesitation, she asked : 

“ But could you not pay me half in advance again ?” 

“ Madam* we can’t afford to pay twice for one garment,” 
he replied, turning coldly from her. 

With a crushed, heavy feeling at her heart, she took up 
her bundle and walked sorrowfully out^of the store. Her 
first impulse was to call on Martha, her eldest daughter, 
who was seamstress in Mr. Hilton’s family ; but not only the 
recollection that her wages were taken up to the last cent, 
but the memory of other days deterred her from it. 

“To think I should have to go to him for aid,” she 
groaned, “ no, no, I cannot ; he has forgotten me. So let 
it be.” 

She clasped her rigid hands, and with bowed head and 
compressed lips walked on. A passer-by might have start- 
ed at the ashen hue and utter wretchedness of her counte- 
nance. 

She turned Co a bakery near by ; she had at least enough 
to buy bread to last them that day and the next, and how 
many had not even .that; but, then, poor Alfred, so weak, so 
emaciated, how could she bear the disappointment of his 
longing eyes? How deep is a mother’s love! for herself 
she felt she could brave everything — cold, hunger, and death. 
But that he, her poor sick child, should want the little com- 
forts so necessary for his restoration to. health while thou- 
sands around her were rioting in wasteful luxuries, filled her 


22 


AGNES ; OE, 


with the most intense anguish. A feeling of despair thrill- 
ed her soul, her limbs trembled, she could scarce proceed ; 
pausing, she wiped the profuse perspiration from lier fore- 
head, and, glancing upward, murmured in her agony, 
“Mother of sorrows, pray for me!” In a moment her 
calmness was restored, and with renewed courage she ex- 
claimed, “ No, I must not lose my only chance of getting 
poor Alfred what he stands so much in need of. What if 
I am forgotten ; so much the better.” She turned, and a 
few moments’ rapid walking brought her to the elegant man- 
sion of Mr. Hilton. Without one glance at the name on 
the hall-door, resolutely forcing back a whole tide of throng- 
ing memories, she descended the steps and rapped at the 
kitchen-door. It was almost immediately opened by Nora 
Neal, the presiding genius of the culinary department. On 
seeing the pale, haggard face before her, with the wild 
impulsiveness of her nature, she threw up both her hands, 
and exclaimed, “ The Lord save us !” 

“ I would like to see Miss Clement,” said the poor widow, 
and, feeling a great weakness coming over her, she leaned 
heavily against the door-case. 

“ Oh, come in, come in,” replied Nora, setting her a chair 
and quickly handing her a glass of water. Eagerly swallow- 
ing it, she revived up and repeated her ^fish to see her 
daughter. “Yes, ma’am, ^nd in a minute she’ll be here.” 
The kind-hearted Nora left the room, wiping with the corner 
of her apron a large tear from her eye. 

“ Ah sure,” she said to herself, “ they are in great trou- 
ble ; the Lord help them, poor things ; it’s themselves that 
arn’t used to such poverty, and it breaks their hearts en- 
tirely I” She slowly shook her head, expressive of the great 
sympathy she felt for them. Reaching the room in which 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


23 


Martha sevved, she hastily threw open the door and ex- 
claimed : 

“ Miss Clement, go down below, your mother is there and 
wishes to see you.” 

•Martha wildly started up, and the last faint trace of color 
left her face. “ My mother !” she exclaimed, and, throwing 
aside her work, had reached the door when, suddenly turn- 
ing, she grasped Nora’s hand and hoarsely whispered : 

“ Did she say he was dead ? Alfred was dead ?” 

“ Oh no, no, she didn’t say a word about it ; and if h^ 
was sure you know she would, so comfort your poor heart.” 

The sympathizing Nora, though she did not feel quite so 
sure of it herself, said this in so confident a tone that the 
warm blood rushed back to Martha’s heart ; with reassured 
feelings, and a grateful pressure of Nora’s hand, she hastily 
descended to the kitchen. Her mother soon informed her 
of her disappointment at Mr. Simonds’s, and how she could 
not go back to Alfred without the delicacy she had pro- 
mised him. For a moment Martha hesitated ; then recol- 
lecting how kindly Mrs. Hilton had always inquired for her 
sick brother, she gained courage and immediately repaired 
to her room. Once in her presence, although she found 
her alone, her resolution faltered. How could she leave 
herself liable to a harsh, perhaps insulting, refusal ? It was 
only a trifle she was about to ask,- but would not that very 
fact make its refusal all the more galling? Mrs, Hilton 
had cheerfully paid her her week’s wages every Saturday 
night, but might she not, like Mr. Simonds, refuse to pay 
her in advance ? With these thoughts passing through her 
mind she stood before her, weak and irresolute. Mrs. 
Hilton at once perceived her embarrassment ; having heard 
from Nora how pa'le and haggard her mother looked when 


24 


AGNES ; OR, 


she came in, she rightly conjectured the poor girl had come 
for some favor. Thinking her embarrassment would sooner 
wear away if she appeared unconscious of it, she kept her 
eyes fixed on a piece of embroidery she held in her hand ; 
but, instead of becoming more calm, her agitation rather in- 
creased, till, deeming it necessary herself to broach the sub- 
ject, she looked up from her employment, and, in a feeling 
tone, remarked : 

“ Nora has been in, and she tells me your mother is in 
Jthe kitchen.” 

“Yes, she is there,” — the blood mantled her cheeks, — 
“Mrs. Hilton, if you would — would — if you would not 
think it too much — .” The poor girl stopped, utterly un- 
able to proceed. 

“ Speak, Martha, speak. Whatever I can do for you I 
will,” rejoined Mrs. Hilton, kindly. 

A deeper flush suffused her cheeks, and she hurriedly 
said — for it seemed, unless she spoke quickly, she could not 
speak at all — I would like a week’s wages in advance. 
Mother wants it to get some things for Alfred.” She hung 
.her head, not now fearful of a refusal, for Mrs. Hilton’s 
countenance showed too great a sympathy to fear that ; 
but that their extreme poverty should be exposed to the 
eyes of a stranger. “ For what else,” she said to herself, 
“ would bring me here on such an errand ?” 

Mrs. Hilton arose, and going to her escritoire, took out a 
delicate porte-monnaie, opened it, and placed a bill in her 
hand. She glanced at it, and, quickly handing it back, ex- 
claimed, 

“ Oh, Mrs. Hilton, you have made a mistake. This is five 
dollars.” But the kind Mrs. Hilton only closed her hand 
upon it, and bade her take it to her mother. 


VIEWS OP CATHQLICITT. 


25 


Poor Martha ! She paused a moment, hoping to get com- 
posed enough to speak ; but finding the tears coming, she 
hastily turned, and had reached the door, when Mrs. Hilton 
again addressed her : 

“ Go, Martha, and tell your mother I would like to see 
her.” 

She thought, by hearing a connected account of their 
difficulties, she might devise some way permanently to re- 
lieve them ; and, in the mean time,” she added, “ do you 
go out and get the things your brother needs, that he may 
not he kept too long waiting.” 

Martha did as directed, and when the poor widow made 
her appearance, with the delicacy of a tme Christian, Mrs. 
Hilton drew from her her tale of sufiering. We will not 
pretend to follow the conversation, which was frequently 
interrupted by tears and sobs, but give below our own 
•version. 

For many years Mr. Clement had resided in the beautiful 
and retired village of Stanton, where, as teacher of a select 
school, he had comfortably supported his family ; but, two 
years before, owing to the erection of a public academy, 
his school began to dwindle away. A few families, out of 
respect and gratitude for the care and fidelity with which 
he had discharged his duties, still patronized him. A year 
passed ; his diminished salary unable to keep them in the 
style in which they had been accustomed to live, he gave up 

the school and moved to the city of A Here he hoped 

in his vocation to be able to support his family, and main- 
tain a respectable position in society. After being in the 
city several weeks, and finding it impossible to obtain 
a situation as teacher, he sought a place as book-keeper or 
clerk in some of the large mercantile establishments. For- 


26 


AGNES ; OE. 


tune frowned on all his eflfoi-ts ; every vacancy was filled. 
At last, when almost worn out with suspense, disappoint- 
ments, and the harassing fear that his family would be re- 
duced to actual want without his being able to put forth a 
hand to help them, he, together with his eldest son, ob- 
tained a situation as clerk in a large clothing store. He 
had been in his new employment but a short time when 
his health, enfeebled with the former confinement of his 
school and the subsequent anxiety of his min4 completely 
gave way, and he sank prostrate on a bed of sickness never 
to rise again. For a few months he lingered and was then 
called away, leaving his wife and children lone and desolate 
in a strange place. To pay the physician’s bill and meet 
the funeral expenses, the widow sold oflf part of their furni- 
ture and moved to humbler lodgings. 

The support of the family depending entirely on the 
slender wages of Alfred, although greatly exhausted with 
constant attendance at the bedside of her husband, she be- 
thought herself of her early calling, that of tailoress, and 
entreated Mr. Simonds to give her work. He submitted a 
trial piece to her, and this she finished with so much satis- 
faction that he furnished her with constant employment. 
About the same time Father J oseph obtained for Martha a 
situation as seamstress in Mr. Hilton’s family. But yet 
their trials were not at an end. Alfred, unaccustomed to 
the close confinement of the store, was taken violently ill 
with a fever. For the first few days she strove to attend 
him without neglecting her sewing. 

They were now at the commencement of a long and tedi- 
ous winter, and want stared them in the face, but the poor 
child’s ravings became so violent that she could hardly 
hold him on the bed; he wished, all sick as he wa^ to 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


27 


rush into the . street, to go back to Stanton, where he in- 
sisted his father was waiting to . receive him. Poor Mrs. 
Clement, her cup of sorrow seemed filled to overflowing ! 
With an anguished heart, she returned, unmade, the gar- 
ment she had taken home, and looked about her to see 
what she could sell, to meet their pressing wants. First 
the bureau went, then the looking-glass, the stand, tlie cur- 
tains, the clock ; and so on, till only such articles as the 
_ strictest necessity required were left. She then descended 
to their wardrobe — they must have something to eat — and 
those dresses which she had carefully put away, as unbe- 
coming their reduced circumstances — why should they be 
left to mock them in their misery ? Indeed, they would 
not have been spared till now, if they had known that in 
the proud city they could dispose of them ; but experience, 
though a painful, is a very thorough teacher. They found 
a ready market for them, and, like the other mementoes of 
better days, they went to supply for a few days longer the 
necessaries of life to the widow and her children. 

Happily, before the means arising from them were all 
gone, Alfred’s fever turned, and once more was she able to 
resume her sewing. But still the little she earned, together 
with Martha’s wages, was scarcely sufficient to keep want 
from their door. Poor Alfred, so very weak and exhausted, 
how much he required not only the strict necessaries, but a 
few of the comforts, of life ! With all the patient endur- 
ance of a mother’s love, she worked day and night to rise 
above their most pressing wants, so as to be able to get 
him some little delicacy that might tempt his feeble palate, 
or some nourishing food that might strengthen his ex- 
hausted frame. But just as she would be on the eve of 
accomplishing her object, some unexpected but imperative 


28 


AGNES ; OE, 


demand would cume to snatcli away her means. At one 
time it was the rent for their miserable little room ; at 
another, the change from moderate to extreme cold weather, 
making it necessary to get a fresh supply of coal to keep 
herself and children from freezing ; thus it was. 

“ What can I do ? What can I do ?” she exclaimed, 
wringing her hands. Then, in a calmer voice, she added : 
“ It’s wrong, very wrong for me to repine, I know it is. I 
told Alfred to-day that cold and hunger might be our path 
to heaven, but ’oh! Mrs. Hilton, heaven is so rich an in- 
heritance that I must not murmur at the price ! Once in 
that blessed home, all the sorrows of the way-side will be 
forgotten 1” 

Her pale face wore so earnest an expression, and her 
voice was so touchingly sweet in its low, thrilling tones, 
that tears, all unheeded, rolled over Mrs. Hilton’s cheeks. 
Hers was not a nature easily moved to tears ; her eyes 
would look pityingly, but seldom fill ; her bearing was 
calm and collected ; her voice gentle, but never hilarious ; 
she frequently smiled, but seldom or never laughed. The 
world called her apathetic ; it even accused her of being 
hard-hearted; but it only showed how little the world, with 
all its pretensions to superior wisdom, knows. The poor, 
the unfortunate, the distressed — and who are judges if not 
they ?— pronounced her kind and charitable, in every sense 
of the word, a true Christian ; and such she really was. 
With a quiet movement of her hand she wiped away the 
tears, spoke a few soothing words to the poor widow, then 
touching the bell, and walking to the door, waited the 
servant’s appearance. She soon came ; receiving her mis- 
tress’s orders, given in a low voice, she left, and presently 
returned, bearing on one arm a small market-basket, on the 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


29 


other a comfortable woollen shawl. Taking the latter, Mrs. 
Hilton approached the widow, and insisted on her accept- 
ing it. 

“And that,” she said, pointing to the basket, and speak- 
ing in her quiet way, “ is for Alfred and the children. The 
cakes and apples, I dare say, will be agreeable to them. 
And now, Mrs. Clement,” she continued, “ I will ^mention 
you to Mr. Hilton, and I have no doubt we can do some- 
thing to help you.” 

Poor Mrs. Clement ! little did the kind lady think how 
those words stung her to the heart. Again a throng of 
memories rushed upon her. She bowed her head upon her 
hands, and a tremor shook her whole frame. Mrs. Hilton, 
with great delicacy, to divert her mind from the thought 
that there was any thing humiliating in one Christian help- 
ing another in distress, put to her several questions. The 
widow raised her head ; the agony had passed away, and 
with calmness she answered them. At length, rising, she 
grasped Mrs. Hilton’s hand, gazed earnestly into her face, 
and with great fervor exclaimed : 

“ My heart is easier now that I have seen you. Thank 
God I came here to-day. Little did I expect this kindness. 
Little — ” .she suddenly paused. 

Mrs. Hilton replied : “ I, too, am glad you called. I 
only regret that you waited so long.” 

“ May the Father of the fatherless bless you, but I will 
go now.” 

She hurriedly took her departure. On her return home, 
she found every thing wearing a different aspect ; a cheerful 
fire spread a genial warmth throughout the room ; a com- 
fortable meal stood on the table ; Alfred’s eyes beamed 
with renewed hope, and her little ones thronged frantically 


30 


AGIfES; OE, 


around ter to tell of the good things God had sent them. 
She felt a great weakness coming over her at the sight of all 
this ; hurriedly kissing the little wondering faces that were 
dearer to her than her own life, she knelt at the side of 
her cot-hed and returned thanks to God for his fatherly 
care and protection. 

That evening, seated by the lamp, sewing in hand, she 
thought of the events of the day, and from them went hack 
to scenes of her early life. On her way through the pas- 
sage, when leaving Mrs. Hilton, she caught a glimpse of 
Agnes, and what painful memories that glimpse recalled. 

Alfred, refreshed with his meal, was conversing with 
Martha ; Ellen and Clara, after saying their prayersj had 
been put to bed; little Mark, with both elbows on the 
table, and his cheeks resting on his palms, was intently 
poring over a book the kind Father Joseph had given him — 
some of those beautiful stories translated from the German 
of C. Yon Schmidt. None noticed the pained expression 
of her countenance ; they did not even hear the heavy 
sighs that now and then escaped her lips. 

“ I must not think of those days," she said, communing 
with herself ; “ I must not think of them." 

Resolutely compressing her lips, she sewed on. At last, 
dropping her needle, she approached her bed, and kneel- 
ing down, strove with all her might to keep down the rising 
sobs. Her whole frame quivered. 

“ Mother," inquired Martha, bending kindly over her, 
“ why do you cry so ?" 

“ She can’t help it," rejoined Alfred ; “ our relief is so 
unexpected, that it quite overpowers her. But come away, 
Martha, and let her have her cry out ; it will do her good ; 
she will feel a great deal better after." 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


31 


“ Dear, dear mother,” said Martha, kissing her cheek, 
“ Alfred is right. I know, when the heart is full, how cry- 
ing relieves its pressure ; I will not disturb you.” Return 
ing to Alfred, she read to him from the life of St. Aloysius 
till he dropped asleep. 

And alone the widow combated with painful memories , 
alone her silent prayer went up for pardon and mercy. 
Ah, little did she know, as she knelt there, that the past, so 
torturing to her, was to have a marked influence on Agnes 
Hilton’s after-life. 


CHAPTER III. 


A FORTNIGHT after Becky Starr’s departure, Agnes sat in 
her room, looking over a collection of drawings Edith Carter 
bad brought home for her. The plains and hills northeast 
of Rome, as viewed from the Belvidere Garden of the 
Vatican, pleased her greatlj"; but there were others to be 
seen, and, eager to get a glimpse of all, determined after- 
wards carefully to study each, she laid it aside for the pre- 
sent and passed on to others. Silently she gazed on several, 
when, coming to a youthful head of St. John the Evan- 
gelist, a small copy in oil from one of the old masters, her 
admiration could no longer be restrained. 

“ Oh, mother !” she exclaimed, her eyes riveted upon it, 
“ how beautiful, how singularly beautiful !” 

“ Which one, Agnes ?” asked Mrs. Hilton, laying down 
a book she had been reading, and wheeling np her arm- 
chair to the table. 

“ St. John, mother. Well might he be called ‘The Be- 
loved Disciple.’ Look ! Did you ever behold so sweet a 
countenance ?” 

“ It is certainly very beautiful.” 

“ Beautiful ! oh, mother, it is angelic. See the short, thick 
curls of sunny hair clustering around the ample forehead, 
the delicate nose, with its slightly expanded nostrils, and 
the lips just parted, with a heavenly smile playing around 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


33 


them — but the eyes, mother, the large blue eyes, are what 
I would call your attention to. What a deep, unfathomed 
expression is in them. They seem even now to be looking 
beyond the present into the dark, mysterious future.” 
Agnes ceased speaking, and silently mother and daughter 
gazed upon the lovely face. At length, while a glow of en- 
thusiasm lit up her cheek, Agnes exclaimed : 

‘‘ Oh, mother, I would that I were a genius, like Guido !” 

“ Although not a genius, Agnes, you draw very well.” 

“Very well! It seems I am the greatest bungler that 
ever took up a pencil. I think them well enough till I see 
• such as these, then their beauty’s gone, they are only daubs.” 

“ You would not like to hear me say it, Agnes.” 

“ Say it or not, I know you must feel it.” 

“ No, no, Agnes, not so. You are only discouraged now, 
but — " her remark was interrupted by a servant opening 
the door and announcing a morning visitor. 

“ Who did you say it was ?” impatiently asked Agnes. 

“ Miss Pauline Simpson.” 

“ Just tell Miss Pauline Simpson I am engaged,” she 
said, with a very perceptible curl of her delicate upper lip. 
Miss Simpson happened to be one of those Agnes frequently 
met in society, but cared nothing for. She had not that 
solidity of character that Agnes admired so much, and 
consequently could not hope to make any favorable impres- 
sion on her ; as a casual acquaintance she might do well 
enough ; as an intimate friend, that was quite another ques- 
tion. 

But her mother countermanded the order she gave the 
servant. 

“ By no means, Julia, you will deliver to her no such 
message.” 


34 


AGNES ; OB, 


“ Why not ?” asked Agnes ; “ am I to leave this delight- 
ful company,” pointing to the drawings, “just to entertain 
Miss Pauline Simpson, and listen to her affected nothings ?” 

“ Agnes, dear, go down. It would pain Miss Pauline to 
have you so pointedly neglect her. She has called to see 
you ; treat her, my child, with Christian politeness.” 

“ And be a martyr to my good-nature.” 

“ There is not the least danger of that.” 

“ Oh dear, if it’s not too bad !” she exclaimed, looking 
quite uncertain whether it were better to yield to her moth- 
er’s wishes or not; “if I stay, I am doomed to hear a 
lecture ; if I go, I am doomed to be bored to death — but I 
will go. I will have this off my hands as soon as possible.” 

“ Agnes, be gentle, be humble.” 

“ Oh, I will be gentle, mother ; meek, humble, and all 
that.” And with this mocking assurance she left the room. 

As might be expected, with the coldest courtesy was Miss 
Simpson received. Agnes just touched the tips of her 
gloved fingers, and then, seating herself by the window, 
drew aside the curtains and gazed into the street. After 
dwelling on the brilliant party at the Nicholsons’, the su- 
perb dresses of the Misses Daver, and how exceedingly 
disappointed they were at not seeing Miss Hilton, Miss 
Simpson suddenly paused. She found it extremely difficult 
to carry on a conversation where only a cold nod, an occa- 
sional elevation of the eyebrows, a formal smile, and now 
and then a lone solitary word was all the assistance she 
received. At last she touched on Edith Carter’s return 
and Becky Starr’s going to her uncle’s. 

“ It must be a great grief to you. Miss Hilton, to see 
Edith return so feeble, and to lose the society of Becky.” 

“ I am deeply pained at the great change in Edith ; and 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


35 


/IS to Beclvy, I may well miss her when, instead of sensible 
conversation, I am doomed to listen to frivolous remarks 
and idle gossip.” 

iSliss Simpson winced a little under this, but maintaining 
her composure observed, “ I think it 'strange she did not 
remain at home till after Christmas.” 

“ To her it was quite immaterial.” 

“ Her grandparents, I hear, are greatly attached to her.” 

‘‘Yes, with them she is a decided favorite.” 

“ And I suppose they will not allow her to return for 
some time ?” 

“ She will remain with them till after Easter.” 

“ Till after Easter ! Upon my word, it is too bad to keep 
her in the country all -winter. It’s selfishness, downright 
selfishness.” 

“ To many it might seem so ; but you forget, with Becky, 
it was her own voluntary offer. Wherefore, we may spare 
her our sympathies; I for one feel there are those who 
need them more.” 

Pauline made no reply, and after an embarrassing silence, 
consulting her watch, she rose to go. 

“ When may we look for Miss Hilton at our house?” she 
asked. 

“ It is impossible to say when,” replied Agnes, leading 
the way to the door. 

“But you must come soon. You must not make such 
a recluse of yourself.” ' 

" “ I shall be with Edith a great deal, so I can make no 
promise.” 

With much satisfaction Agnes saw her depart, and imme- 
diately returned to her drawings. 

Another day has passed, and again we turn to the widow’s 


36 


AGNES ; OR, 


family. Alfred Clement is no longer an occupant of the 
low bed in the corner; with a warm blanket wrapped 
round him, he sits in a rocking-chair before a cheerful fire. 
His feet are resting on a stool ; his pale hands, thrust out 
from the blanket, are lying listlessly on the arms of the 
chair. Although still very pale and thin, his eyes begin to 
beam with the light of returning health, and his whole 
aspect speaks a mind at ease. His little sisters, Ellen and 
Clara, in plain, comfortable dresses, suited to the season, are 
quietly playing on the floor beside him. Little Mark is sitting 
by the window, watching the large flakes of snow so thickly 
coming- down, that he does not doubt but the old woman 
he has heard of, up in the sky, is surely picking her geese ; 
and as he rubs his eyes wdth his tiny palms, and looks and 
looks again, he comes to the conclusion there must be a 
company of old women, for not one alone could possibly 
send down such vast quantities. Mrs. Clement is sitting 
by another window, not watching the fast-descending snow, 
but with eyes fixed on her sewing, and fingers plying 
swiftly up and down. Her countenance wears not the 
weary, harassed expression it wore before, but a peaceful 
smile plays round her features, and a grateful light beams 
from her mild blue eyes. The floor is neatly swept, and the 
unpainted table is placed back by the wall ; the coal-scuttle 
is not only full, but quite a quantity is stored away in a 
box on one side of the stove ; on a shelf near the bed a 
clock is ticking away, seeming to say, “ Hope on, hope on.” 
This last" was supplied by the thoughtful kindness of Mr.. 
Hilton. He remembered away back, when a little boy, of 
being sick, and how the friendly ticking of a clock had 
helped him to pass the tedious hours of the night. Alfred 
had said nothing about missing one, but when Mr. Hilton 


\r[EWS OP CATHOLICITT. 


37 


brought it in and set it up, his heart gave one great throb 
and then stopped, as if it would never start again. Yes, 
kind Mr. Hilton was., right ; the sick boy had sorely missed 
it ; and now, in the long weary nights, its friendly ticking 
falls so soothingly on his ears, always seeming to say, 
“Hope on, hope on.” Simple white curtains, partially 
drawn aside, shade the windows, and break the disagreea- 
ble glare of light. Altogether the humble room wears a 
cheerful, comfortable appearance. A great weight has been 
taken off the widow’s heart ; she has plenty of nourishing 
food, not only for Alfred, hut for her little ones, and Alfred 
is so much better — why, in a few weeks he will be able to 
resume his place in Mr. Sirnonds’s store ; and then, by the 
time the provisions Mr. Hilton thoughtfully sent in are ex- 
liausted, she will be able herself to get a fresh supply, pay 
up her liouse-rent, and get a comfortable suit round for the 
children, and another summer little Mark can go to school. 
He is yet pale and thin, and so barely recovered from the 
cold he caught in the spring, and which settled with in- 
flammation on the lungs, that she dares not think of his going 
till the warm weather comes on. 

Here, in the midst of her busy calculations, a shade 
passed over her brow. Little Mark had been feeble from 
his birth, and his parents, as he increased in years, finding 
him possessed of unusual capacities for learning, determined 
to educate him for one of the learned professions. But we 
have seen how sorrow's gathered fast around them : first 
sickness, poverty, and death ; then again sickness, and pov- 
erty (?eeper still, till Mrs. Clement looked upon the project 
of educating little Mark as one of the grand extinguished 
hopes of her life. Extinguished — did I say? No, not 
quite extinguished ; for. under the ashes of past hopes, a 


38 


AGNES ; OR, 


few* faint coals still glimmered with a pale, uncertain light. 
Alfred’s salary in a few years would he increased, and then, 
with strict economy, they might be able to place him in 
some institution of learning ; in the mean time, she would 
constantly keep him in school. But — a doubt came , up — 
would Alfred be willing to part with the greater share of 
his salary for his brother’s sake ? He was impulsive and 
generous, but would his generosity hold out for twm, three, 
or four years? Could ^he rely on it? Would not his own 
increased w^ants demand the whole of his increased wages ? 
Would he not think educating little Mark, and giving him 
a profession, would be raising him above the rest of the 
family ? She paused, and looked up. One glance at his 
open countenance, and these fears rushed back. “ No, no,” 
she mentally exclaimed, again fixing her eyes on- her sewing, 
“ Alfred possesses no such grudging spirit ; other boys as 
they grow up may turn ungrateful to their parents, and feel 
almost an envy and hatred to their brothers and sisters, but 
Alfred will not be like them. He will know that, in help- 
ing his feeble brother to get in a way to support himself, 
he will not be raising him above, but only making him an 
equal with, the rest ; for Martha has a good trade, that of 
seamstress, and as soon as Ellen and Clara are old enough, 
they shall be apprenticed to a dressmaker and milliner.” 
Then she went on to judge what Alfred’s salary might be, 
and how much from it would have to go for Mark, and how 
much would be left for himself. Ah 1 it wmuld be but a 
small pittance — so small, indeed, that she scarcely dare hope 
he would be satisfied with it. And then a great •many 
doubts and fears arose, till, like stones thrown into a limpid 
stream, they so roiled her thoughts that she found it im- 
possible to go on. Suddenly dropping her needle, she 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY.- 


SD 

glanced at the deck, and found the hand pointing to the 
hour in which she prepared their frugal dinner; she arose, 
and looking out of the window exclaimed : 

“ Wh}% Alfred, I did not know it was snowing ; and all 
the lane is covered with snow.” 

“ Did not know it was snowing !” exclaimed little Mark, 
getting down from his chair and going up to the stove, 
“why, mother, the old woman that lives in the clouds has 
sent down all her frozen feathers to-day.” 

“All, Mark?” said Alfred, reaching out his hand and 
smoothing the yellow locks on the dear child’s head. 

“Yes,” he replied, with a winning smile. Then, turning 
to his mother, exclaimed : “ Oh, mother, it made me think, 
they are so pure and white, as they lie upon the ground, 
that they cover up all the dirty spots, just like — .” He 
suddenly checked himself, fearing his thoughts might be 
wild and out of place. 

“ Just like what, Marky ?” said Alfred, encouragingly, 
passing his arm around him and drawing him closer to his 
side ; “ tell us like what ?” 

“Just like contrition. You know, mother, in my last 
catechism lesson it says true contrition would make the 
soul ever so black with sin pure and white — that it would 
cover up all its wickedness, Alfred,” he added, looking 
solemnly into his brother’s face, “ just as the snow covers 
up all the dirty spots in the world.” 

“ Hut, Mark, contrition, true contrition, does not merely 
cover them up — it does more — it washes them all away.” 

“ Washes them all away. Washes them all away,” he 
slowly repeated, fixing his eyes thoughtfully on the floor ; 
then suddenly raising them, he exclaimed, “ Ah ! now I 
have it. It’s like charity, the snow is, it covers up all the 


40 


AGNES ; OE, 


dirty spots, as charity covers a multitude of sins — that’s it 
— that’s it.” He looked so pleased that he had now found 
a correct simile, that, tenderly stroking his fair curls, Alfred 
said : 

“ Let Mark’s thoughts start from where they will, they 
always take some pious turn. Dear, dear little Mark.” 
He stooped and kissed his cheek. 

“ Yes, and the poor child remembers his lessons so well. 
Oh, Alfred, would that we could educate him as your 
father and I intended. I have been thinking of it all the 
evening.” 

“ And you fear, because he is so feeble, that he will never 
be able to learn a trade ?” 

“ I do, Alfred.” 

“ But, mother, he may grow stronger as he grows older.” 

“ Where are the grounds to hope for it ? Your father was 
just like him, and you know how feeble he always was.” 

“Yes, mother; but some of the trades may not be as 
wearing on the constitution as teaching. Father always 
said it was the hardest work in the world.” 

“ But we did not intend Mark for a teacher ; that is too 
confining.” 

“You intended him, then, for one of the professions,- 
whichever he might choose ?” 

“Yes, Alfred, we did.” 

“ But, mother, I have always heard the labor of any of 
the professions is very exhausting. You know' the clercry- 
man and physician’s services are required day and night. 
How often, when father was sick, did Doctor Kenna stay 
up with him all night ; and sometimes, w'hen he would 
leave him quite comfortable at ten or eleven o’clock, would 
we have to send for him again before morning !” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


41 


“ ITes, Alfred, I do know it. I do remember it.” She 
paused in the preparation of her meal, and wiped away a 
tear. Little Mark, the subject of their conversation, took 
down from the clock-shelf a large book of prints, a present 
from Mrs. Hilton, and seating himself on the floor, with the 
open volume on his lap, began explaining its pictures to 
his little sisters, who seated themselves one on each side 
of him. 

“ The professions,” resumed Mrs. Clement, “ may be 
exhausting, as you say. But, Alfred, let me tell you, that 
calling for which one is intended is to him the easiest 
way of getting a living. Mark has a natural inclination for 
study, and it would be hard for him to turn from that to 
something else for which he has little or no liking.” 

“ But others before him have had to do the same.” 

“Yes, Alfred, but how has it ended? After struggling 
and laboring, and striving in vain to keep up Avith their 
companions, at middle age, with broken spirits and hopes 
all crushed, they have sunk into the grave, leaving behind 
them a sorrowful verification of the old proverb, that ‘ what 
is one man’s food is another man’s poison.’ ” 

With the conceit which sometimes troubles boys of his 
age, Alfred doubted not his ability to make a sensible re- 
ply ; it made no difference if he shot a little far of the mark, 
he would be sure to hit something, and after a slight pause, 
with a suddenly assumed dignity, he remarked : 

“ Mother, you have taken a strange view of life ; or to 
speak learnedly, like that philosopher of father’s school, 
Hugh Donaldson, you look upon learning for Mark through 
the perspective of ambition, and all appears near at hand 
and easy of attainment ; you then turn the glass, and through 
the convex lens of disappointed hopes view for him the 


42 


AGNES ; OR, 


trades ; and, as might be expected, every thing about them 
appears small and miserably distorted.” 

The widow’s lips trembled, and tears gathered in her 
eyes. 

“Alfred,” she said, in a mildly reproachful tone, “this is 
not a comparison to make to me. Remember, I have for 
the poor child the feelings of a mother, and cannot hear to 
see his whole life blighted.” 

“Yes, mother, but you should not allow these feelings 
to overcome your better judgment. Have you not, often 
and often, heard of feeble constitutions being irreparably 
injured by hard study ? and has it never occurred to you, 
that, if they had been put to something else, it would have 
been much better for them ?” 

“Alfred, I must answer your questions one at a time. Yes, 
I have often heard of feeble constitutions being irreparably 
injured by hard study *, 'but, then, it was where they had no 
natural turn for such labor, and their friends, blind to this, 
and regardless of any feebleness, urged them on. Your 
second question I will answer by asking myself, would it 
not have been better if they had been put to something 
else — something for which they really had a talent ?” 

“ Then, mother, you believe every one is endowed with 
some particular gift?” 

“ I do, Alfred, and every day’s experience confirms that 
belief.” 

Alfred thought for some time ; at length he spoke. 

“We are poor now, and I don’t know as we shall ever 
be better off, so Mark, I fear, will have to take his chance 
with the rest of us.” 

The widow made no reply. She felt he did not in the 
least sympathize with her. In all the conversation he had 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


43 


expressed no desire to have Mark educated ; on the con- 
trary, seemed rather averse to it. She had not yet direct- 
ly asked his assistance, hut, womanlike, had tried first to 
sound his feelings on the subject ; the doubt she had quell- 
ed as to his generous co-operation in educating his feeble 
brother arose before her, and would not be put down. Ah, 
if she could only get the means herself, how hard would 
she work : she would not ask his aid ; having no father to 
help him forward in the world, she would feel he needed 
all for himself. But alas, woman’s labor is so poorly re- 
munerated, she would have to ask .him — not now, but by 
and by. 

Sad and disheartened, she glanced at little Mark; he 
was still sitting on the floor with the volume spread out 
on his lap ; one little arm was thrown protectingly around 
Clara, whose eyes were raised to his as if not fully compre- 
hending all he whs saying, while Ellen, in a partially re- 
clining position, leaned forward on one hand and arm, and 
placing the other on the open page, gazed earnestly into 
his face. The widow saw them, but so engrossed in her 
own thoughts she heeded not what they were saying till 
little Mark, in a very clear, distinct, and somewhat louder 
tone, exclaimed : 

“Yes, Ellen, the flowers must have storm and sunshine, 
or they would never grow.” 

“ No, no, Mark; it is the sun, and not the black clouds 
and naughty rain, which makes the dear little flowers so 
beautiful.” 

“ No, Ellen, no ; the seeds once in the ground, the storms 
must come, or the flowers would never grow ; too much 
sunshine would dry them all up.” 

Immediately the words, “ the seeds once in the ground, 


44 


AGI^ES; OR, 


the storms must come, or the flowers would never grow,” 
ran 2: in her ears. 

“Yes, yes,” she mentally exclaimed, “too much sun- 
shine would surely dry them all up ; and may it not be the 
same with human talents ? have not the storms of adversity 
unfolded many a brilliant genius, that under the enervating 
sun of prosperity ’would have withered and died away ? 
May not the very poverty I deplore he the means of ex- 
panding little Mark’s talents ? May it not strengthen him 
to contend bravely with every opposing difficulty, till, rising 
triumphant above them all, he will be able in after years 
to look back upon these very trials, these very struggles, 
as the friendly aids to his happiness and success ?” 

With a glad, joyous smile, she glanced at him. His 
book was closed, and, weary with showing and explaining 
its pictures to his sisters, he had leaned back with his head 
against the wall ; his eyes were closed, and so deadly a pallor 
had settled on his countenance that he looked like sculp- 
tured marble. A tear filled her eye, and the hopeful 
thoughts rushed back. 

“ Poor child ! poor child ! weak and feeble as he is, 
how will he be able to contend with poverty ? Sturdy 
frames may bear and even be strengthened by the storms 
of adversity, but fragile forms, like delicate plants, need 
more careful rearing, fully to expand, and bring them to 
maturity.” Turning from Mark, she gazed on Alfred."' His 
cheek was resting on his hand, and he seemed lost in revery. 
Surely he had greatly mended ; God did not forget them 
in their darkest hours, and, remembering the past, could 
she fear the future? No, the Father of the fatherless 
would raise up means by which her feeble child might yet 
be educated. And she was right ; the God whom in sorrow 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


and affliction she served so faithfully, looked down upon 
her, and already w^as a way opening for little Mark — a way 
she dreamed not of. 

The meal ready, she wheeled Alfred’s. chair to the table, 
seated her little ones around it, and, enlivened with cheer- 
ful conversation, they partook of their humble repast. 




CHAPTER IV. 


After a short call on Mrs. Starr, Agnes Hilton returned 
home, and laying aside her smiles and gracious airs with 
her cloak and bonnet, with a stately step she repaired to 
the room of the sewing-girl. Martha heard the door open, 
knew who was entering, but, from an undefinable dread of 
encountering a pair of freezing eyes, she could not prevail 
upon herself to raise her head. With a chilled feeling at 
» her heart, she sewed on. Beautiful as a marble statue — a 
statue from Phidias’s hand, with life breathed into it — Agnes 
stood before her, watching the rapid movements of her slen- 
der fingers. “ Will she speak,” thought Martha, “ and if so, 
will it be to commend, or find fault ? What does she, the fa- 
vored child of fortune, know of the headaches, sideaches, and 
heartaches of the suffering poor ? Did she ever commend 
or speak one soothing word to them ? Does she not fancy 
herself raised infinitely above them, belonging to quite a 
different order of beings in the great scale of creation ?” 
When Christ resolved the ten commandments into two, he 
showed the whole duty of man consisted in loving the Lord 
his God with his wlio^e heart, and his neighbor as himself. 
Martha felt the first part was easy enough to follow. How 
could she help loving with all her heart the God from whom 
she received every good — who was her father and her pro- 
tector? But could she love her neighbor as herself? Could 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


47 


she love Agnes— Agnes, who treated her with contempt, 
merely because lier lot was cast among the poor— did she 
not already, in her heart, feel for her an antipathy which 
was nearly akin to hate ? Martha had been reared pio.usly, 
and such self-communings deeply pained her. Agnes spoke, 
and her words seemed to fall frozen on her ears : 

“ I expected you would have that robe finished before 
now.” 

“ It will be done in a very short time.” 

“ How soon ?” 

“ In three or four hours.” 

“ In three or four hours ! Pray, how much more have 
you to do to it ?” 

“ That rose and all these leaves to work.” The poor 
girl’s hand trembled violently as she pointed to them, and 
a faint tinge overspread her face. 

And will it take you three or four hours to do that ?” 

There was doubt and mockery in Agnes’s voice. The hue 
deepened on Martha’s cheek, as in a low, almost inaudible 
tone she replied : 

“ Miss Hilton, I cannot possibly do it sooner.” 

“Very well, I shall expect to see it in my room by that 
time; let me not be disappointed,” and with a majestic 
step she passed from the apartment 

“ Could she love her ?” again Martha asked herself. She 
newly threaded her needle, carefully took the first stitch, 
and went on filling up with heavy work the traced leaves ; 
no, she could not ; she must dislike her ; she could not 
help it. Father Joseph might say what he would ; it was 
very easy to preach, it was quite a difierent thing to prac- 
tise. Martha sewed on. • From Agnes her thoughts re- 
verted to Mr. and Mrs. Hilton. How kind they had been 


48 


AGNES ; OE, 


to her ; liow much they had done for her family. Oh ! they 
were so good, she could easily love them. Faster flew her 
hand, and more troubled beearne her brow ; the words of 
the blessed Saviour occurred to her : “ If you love them * 
who love you, what thanks have you ? for sinners love those 
that love them. If you do good to them that do good to 

you, what thanks have you ? for sinners do this 

But I say, love your enemies ; do good to them that hate 
you ; bless them that curse you ; and pray for them that 
ealumniate you . . . and your reward shall be very great, 
and you shall be the sons of the Most High ; for he ‘is kind 
to the unthankful and to the evil. Be ye also merciful as 
your Father is merciful.”^ Father"" Joseph had often re- 
peated these words to her, and she had read from “ The 
Beflections for Every Day in the Month,” translated from 
the French of F. Bonhours, “ That we must either love our 
enemies or hate ourselves . . . that hatred is allowed but 
to devils ; that it belongs to them alone ; and that there is 
not a more formal sign of reprobation.” The leaves were 
now all finished, and she turned to the rose. As there was 
no shading, the delicate petals were to be nicely marked off. 
Moving her seat nearer the window, and folding back the 
blind, she worked and thought on. If she eould not love 
Agnes, she would, at least, not hate her; as Father Joseph 
had kindly advised her, she would strive to act just as if she 
did love her, and by-and-by that feeling might come 
into her heart. She would never say the least disparaging 
word against her ; she would ever speak respectfully of her; 
she would even do more — she would pray for her. These 
truly Christian resolutions quieted her conseience ; the robe 

♦Luke, c. vi. : v. 32, 33, 2’7, 28, 35, and 36. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


49 


was finished at the appointed time, and, with a serene coun- 
tenance, she carried it to Agnes’s room. A glow of satisfac- 
tion passed over Agnes’s fade as she raised her eyes from 
her drawing, and glanced over the garment. 

“ You may lay it on the table,” she said. 

“ Do you wish me to commence your scarf now ?” Mar- 
tha asked. 

“ No, not to-day ; it is Saturday, and you intend going 
home?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very well; if mother has nothing for you to do, you 
might as well go now as in the evening. I suppose you are 
anxious to see your sick brother.” 

Martha did not expect so much consideration from her, 
and she thought of her resolution. Yes, she might get to 
love her. She was so very beautiful, that, if she would only 
be a little more gracious, it would not be so hard after all. 
Her thoughts seemed to show forth in her countenance, for, 
with the first good-natured smile she had ever regarded her 
with, Agnes remarked : 

“ I am not quite so terrible as you think me. I am glad 
your brother is so much better, and I hope he may soon 
be entirely well.” 

“Thank you, thank you. Miss Hilton.” 

Agnes again placed her eyes on her drawing, and Martha 
at once proceeded to Mrs. Hilton’s room. 

“ Well, Martha,” said Mrs. Hilton, in her kind, friendly 
way, “ I suppose you rejoice that it is Saturday ?” 

“ I shall be glad to see mother and Alfred.” 

“ And the little ones ?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Hilton ; I have come to see if you have any 
thing for me to do.” 


50 


AGNES ; OR, 


‘‘You have finished the robe?” 

“ Yes, it is done.” 

“ Then I have nothing just at present. Monday you can 
commence Agnes’s scarf, or rearrange the trimming on her 
dress.” 

“ The purple silk ?” 

“Yes, she does not like the ruching to run horizontal.” 

“ How does she want it put on ?” 

“ That she will tell you herself on Monday. I hardly 
know. I think she said something about its being set on 
at the waist, and coming down in a graceful fall to the 
bottom of the skirt. But you have not been to lunch, 
Martha !” 

“ I do not care for it, Mrs. Hilton.” 

“ But you must have it before starting, so go back to 
your room, and it shall be immediately sent you.” 

Martha, knowing it would pain the kind Mrs. Hilton to 
refuse it, returned to her room. The lunch over, as she 
was putting on her shawl and bonnet, Mrs. Hilton came in, 
carrying a basket in her hand. 

“ Here, Martha,” she said, “ you must take this to the 
children ; and of the apples, I think, one of them roasted 
would not hurt Alfred. The cordial he is to take as he 
took the other.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Hilton, how kind, how thoughtful, you are !” 

“ Think nothing of it, Martha. It is a great pleasure 
for me to send them.” Mrs. Hilton followed her to the 
door and extended her hand to her. Martha hesitated a 
moment, then, laying her basket on the fioor, she threw her 
arms around her neck, and kissed her cheek. 

“ I can’t help itj” she sobbed, “ I can’t help it. You 
have been so good, so kind !” , 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


51 


“ God bless you, Martha !’* said Mrs. Hilton, wiping the 
moisture from her eyes. 

Once in the street, with rapid walking she soon reached 
home. The family were again gathered around their mid- 
day meal. Laying her basket on a chair, she soon removed 
her out-door wrappings, and took a seat beside Alfred. 

“ Oh, mother ! Oh, Alfred !” she exclaimed, resting her 
elbows on the table, 

“ ‘ In all the wide world there’s no place like home.’ ” 

“That’s a good girl, Martha!” said Alfred, his eyes 
beaming with affection, “it shows how much you love us 
all.” ' 

“ Love you all, Alfred, you don’t know, and I can’t tell, 
how much I love you all, and not the least my poor sick 
brother.” She reached out her hand, srhoothed back the 
rich chestnut locks from his pure white forehead and 
tenderly kissed it. A flush of happiness irradiated his 
face. 

“ Martha,” he exclaimed, “ kings might envy me such a 
sister !” 

Mrs. Clement arose and walked to the cupboard. 

“ Mother,” said Martha, “ you need not bring a plate, I 
have been to lunch.” 

“ But you will take a cup of tea ?” 

“ No, I could not drink a drop.” 

“Do, Martha, just to be sociable,” entreated Alfred. 

“ Well, then, mother, you may bring a cup, but I cannot 
eat.” 

Pleasant conversation enlivened the meal ; Mark, Ellen, 
and Clara came in for their due share of notice, and much 
they wondered to themselves why the little room always 


52 


AGNES ; OE, 


looked brighter and pleasanter when Martha came home. 
When they had finished their dinner, she gave each of them 
a rosy-cheeked apple from the basket. She then put away 
the cookies and crackers, and, unrolling a package, turned 
to her mother and said, 

“ See, some more cordial for Alfred. Mrs. Hilton said he 
was to take it n,s he took the other.” 

“ God bless her !” fervently ejaculated the widow, her 
eyes filling, “ how much we owe her !” 

“ Owe her, mother ! She is the best woman in the world ! 
How disappointed I was in her !” 

“How, Martha?” 

“ Wait, Alfred, till I wash the dishes, and then I will tell 
you.” 

The widow seated herself at the window and resumed 
her sewing. Martha went to clearing away the dishes, 
neatly placing them on the cupboard shelves, an*d tidily ar- 
ranging the room. Alfred watched her movements, as with 
a light step she glided round, her pale face looking so 
happy because she knew her presence made those so dear 
to her happy too ; he could not see all this without think- 
ing of the old home in Stanton. ’Twas just the same there, 
Martha was the very light of it ; he remembered how lonely 
it looked a week that she was away visiting, and how glad 
they all were when the week ended, and she was at home 
again, laughing and talking, and having a care for every 
thing around her. In his heart he believed there was not 
such another sister in the wide world, but perhaps all 
brothers think the same. At iast slie got through, and it 
was really pleasing to notice the additional air of comfort 
and neatness she had thrown around the room. The stove 
looked all the brighter for her hand having been over it, 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


53 


the chairs were placed tidily back, the pillows shaken up 
and made to look fuller and rounder, the prayer-books and 
other volumes on the mantelpiece were carefully dusted, 
and the curtains were looped back so as to fall in the most 
graceful folds possible, to the floor. Picking up little Clara, 
who had fallen asleep, and laying her on the bed, she drew 
up her chair to the fire, and, with Ellen on her lap, was 
then all ready to tell wherein she had been so greatly dis- 
appointed in Mrs. Hilton. 

“You see,” she said, directing her eyes to Alfred, and 
shading with one hand the full glare of the fire from Ellen’s 
cheek, and with the other smoothing down her soft brown 
hair, “ when I first went to the Hiltons’, I thought Mrs. 
Hilton a cold, proud woman ; she walked about from room 
to room of her elegant home, with a calm, statue-like in- 
difference ; her voice was a lifeless monotone, and her pale 
countenance had an inward look about it, as if, with the ex- 
ception of Mr. Hilton and Miss Agnes, she never cared to 
converse with any one but her own thoughts. Her remarks 
to her friends, which I occasionally heard, were made in 
the same unvaried tone in which she delivered her orders 
to her servants. She seemed as lifeless and unsympathizing 
as a marble statue ; I did not like, her at all, and felt a chill 
creep over me every time she came into the Toom in which 
I sewed. Whenever I was obliged to reply to any of her 
few remarks, my words would all leave me, and I could 
only stammer out a jumble of sounds perfectly uniirtelligi- 
ble. One day she came in, and, after giving some direc- 
tions about the making of a morning robe, she looked at 
my black dress, and laying her hand on my arm, in a voice 
lower than usual, said, ‘ Martha, you have lost a friend ?’ 
T tried to speak, and after one or two attempts, made out 


62 


AGNES ; OE, 


looked brighter and pleasanter when Martha came home. 
When they had finished their dinner, she gave each of them 
a rosy-cheeked apple from the basket. She then put away 
the cookies and crackers, and, unrolling a package, turned 
to her mother and said, 

“ See, some more cordial for Alfred. Mrs. Hilton said he 
was to take it n,s he took the other.” 

“ God bless her !” fervently ejaculated the widow, her 
eyes filling, “ how much we owe her !” 

“ Owe her, mother ! She is the best woman in the world ! 
How disappointed I was in her !” 

“How, Martha?” 

“ Wait, Alfred, till I wash the dishes, and then I will tell 
you.” 

The widow seated herself at the window and resumed 
her sewing. Martha went to clearing away the dishes, 
neatly placing them on the cupboard shelves, and tidily ar- 
ranging the room. Alfred watched her movements, as with 
a light step she glided round, her pale face looking so 
happy because she knew her presence made those so dear 
to her happy too ; he could not see all this without think- 
ing of the old home in Stanton. ’Twas just the same there, 
Martha was the very light of it ; he remembered how lonely 
it looked a week that she was away visiting, and how glad 
they all were when the week ended, and she was at home 
again, laughing and talking, and having a care for every 
thing around her. In his heart he believed there was not 
such another sister in the wide world, but perhaps all 
brothers think the same. At iast she got through, and it 
was really pleasing to notice the additional air of comfort 
and neatness she had thrown around the room. The stove 
looked all the brighter for her hand having been over it, 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


53 


the chairs were placed tidily back, the pillows shaken up 
and made to look fuller and rounder, the prayer-books and 
other volumes on the mantelpiece were carefully dusted, 
and the curtains were looped back so as to fall in the most 
graceful folds possible, to the floor. Picking up little Clara, 
who had fallen asleep, and laying her on the bed, she drew 
up her chair to the fire, and, with Ellen on her lap, was 
then ail ready to toll wherein she had been so greatly dis- 
appointed in Mrs. Hilton. 

“You see,” she said, directing her eyes to Alfred, and 
shading with one hand the full glare of the fire from Ellen’s 
cheek, and with the other smoothing down her soft brown 
hair, “ when I first went to the Hiltons’, I thought Mrs. 
Hilton a cold, proud woman ; she walked about from room 
to room of her elegant home, with a calm, statue-like in- 
diflference ; her voice was a lifeless monotone, and her pale 
countenance had an inward look about it, as if, with the ex- 
ception of Mr. Hilton and Miss Agnes, she never cared to 
converse with any one but her own thoughts. Her remarks 
to her friends, which I occasionally heard, were made in 
the same unvaried tone in which she delivered her orders 
to her servants. She seemed as lifeless and unsympathizing 
as a marble statue ; I did not like, her at all, and felt a chill 
creep over me every time she came into the -room in which 
I sewed. Whenever I was obliged to reply to any of her 
few remarks, my words would all leave me, and I could 
only stammer out a jumble of sounds perfectly unintelligi- 
ble. One day she came in, and, after giving some direc- 
tions about the making of a morning robe, she looked at 
my black dress, and laying her hand on my arm, in a voice 
lower than usual, said, ‘ Martha, you have lost a friend ?’ 
T tried to speak, and after one or two attempts, made out 


56 


AGNES ; OK, 


You were saying you feared to have the family know 
I had the fever, and that Julia Reed came to pass the day 
with you.” 

“ Oh yes ; well, that was a long, long day. J ulia intro- 
duced one subject after another, and I had the greatest 
diflBculty in keeping my mind sufficiently on what she was 
saying to answer ‘ yes’ ,pr ‘ no’ straight. Fortunately, be- 
ing a great talker herself, she did not notice my abstraction. 
How relieved I felt when she left me in the evening ! The 
next day was drearier still, and so of each day, till, before 
Saturday came round, I was about sick with fears and 
anxieties. Sometimes I would think, to comfort mjself, 
that you could not be dead, for mother Would have come 
to tell me ; then the fear that you had died, and mother 
,, had been stricken down too, would almost make my brain 
whirl with anguish. Trying to shut out the sickening 
thought, I would say to myself : ‘ if Alfred died, and mother 
is sick too, little Mark is so intelligent, he knows where I 
am, and he would surely come for me.’ At last, Saturday 
again came round. I hurried so with my sewing, that by 
three o’clock I got through, ready to come home. Before 
starting, I went into Mrs. Hilton’s room for my week’s 
wages. She looked at me steadily for a moment, and I 
was afraid she was going to ask if any thing was the matter ; 
but no, without a word she opened her porte-monnaie and 
handed me the money. Once in the street, walk as fast 
as I would, it seemed I could never reach home ; the dis- 
tance appeared to stretch ’on before me ; I longed to have 
wings to fly ; ‘ are they all dead ?’ I asked myself, and, 
heedless of the wild stare of the ever-shifting throng of the 
street, my hurried walk deepened into a run. Breathless, 
I reached the door, and heard mother’s voice striving to 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


67 


. quiet yjDU in your wild delirium, and oh, Alfred ! how wild 
my own heart felt ! Mother, you know how I acted when 
I first came in ?” 

The widow wiped a tear from her eye, and, glancing up- 
ward, breathed a silent prayer. 

“ Well, I stayed over Sunday again, and on Monday went 
back to my sewing. Mrs. Hilton met me in the passage 
leading to my room ; taking my hand, she looked calmly 
into my face, and said : ‘ Martha, you are in trouble ; will 
you not tell me what it is V I felt, in spite of all my efforts 
to appear undisturbed, that the tears were again coming ; 
hastily brushing them away, I glanced at her pale calm 
face, and, maddened at the thought that she should be so 
unmoved when I was so very, very wretched, I snatched 
my hand from her, rushed into my room, buried my face 
in my apron, and wept till I thought my heart would break f 
for my tears did not relieve me, they only made me feel 
worse. When I looked up, she was sitting beside me ; 
when she came in I know not. ‘ Oh, Martha, poor Martha,^ 
she said, kindly laying her hand on my head, and smooth- 
ing down my ruffled hair, ‘ all your grieving will never re- 
call the dead !’ Again I glanced at her, and this time 
noticed that, instead of a calm, unfeeling face, there were 
the lines of deep sufiering traced all over it ; and instead of 
cold, freezing eyes, they were mild, faded gray, full of pity 
and compassion. Immediately my heart warmed to her. 
* Oh, Mrs. Hilton,’ I exclaimed, ^pardon my rudeness. You 
don’t know how wretched I am I’ ‘ My poor child,’ she 
replied, again taking my hand, and dwelling on the thought 
that it was father’s death caused my tears, ‘my poor 
child, God in mercy calls our friends.’ I looked up into 
her face, a great pallor had spread over it, and tears were 
3 * 


68 


AGNES ; OR, 


standing in lier eyes. * Look at these lines, Martha,’ she 
said, pointing to the many wrinkles on her lofty brow ; 

‘ they were placed there, not by the hand of time, hut by 
sinful and unhallowed grief.’ Then She went on to tell me 
how other children, besides Agnes, had once gathered round 
her home, and called her ‘ mother’ — how beautiful and fair 
they were — how, with Agnes, they formed a family group 
that any mother might be proud of — how she was proud 
of them, and thought of nothing else, and, then, how sick- 
ness, in the form of a malignant fever, came among them, 
and, before disease had time to mar their beauty, how 
Death set his seal upon them, and bore them away — all 
but Agnes. ‘ Yes, yes,’ she exclaimed, while the warm 
tears from her eyes fell upon my hand, ‘ when I gazed on 
my little Rosie, the youngest of the band, dressed in her 
snowy robes, the golden curls brushed from off her snowy 
brow, her cherub face pale as the statue of innocence, and 
her tiny hands crossed over her little breast, I forgot every 
thing but my sad bereavement; my noble Arthur, and 
gentle Mary, and now my beautiful Rosie — all, all gone ! 
none but Agnes left !’ ‘ And you loved Agnes so much, 

and was so grateful she was spared,’ I ventured to remark. 
Shading her eyes with her pale hand, she replied, ‘ hfo, 
Martha, no ; strange as it may appear, I no longer dared 
to love her as I once loved her.’ And then she went on 
to tell me, that, while she feared to pour out the wealth of 
her affection on this last remaining one, lest she, too, 
might be taken from her, a feeling of wicked sore rebellion 
against the wisdom and justice of God constantly filled her 
heart. She felt, because she loved them so dearly, that 
they had been called away — and should a mother be 
punished for the love she bears her children ? was a ques- 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


69 


tion that arose a thousand times before her. Stern, bitter 
thoughts took porsession of her mind. Mr. Hilton tried to 
console her, but she turned a deaf ear to all liis soothing 
words ; even Agnes’s little acts of endearment failed to 
divert her from her grief. One day she said she was 
sitting by a window, saw Agnes enter the garden, pass 
rapidly from bed to bed, cull a flower here and a flower 
there, forming what she well knew was intended as a bou- 
quet for her poor, sad mother. All the afiefttion of her 
heart went out to her, and she inwardly resolved that death 
should never separate them. Terrified at the rashness of 
her resolution — for it seemed to her a tempting Death to 
claim her last darling — she hurriedly passed into her own 
room, closed the door, and, kneeling down, tried to pray. 
From that day her mind constantly dwelt on her.J)uried 
idols, not in the close, dark grave, but in their bright, 
beautiful hoiiie. Gradually a feeling of gratitude mingled 
in her grief; ere sin, or care, or sorrow had in the least 
clouded their spirits, they had been removed to a home 
all glorious and happy. ‘ Oh, Martha !’ she exclaimed, ‘ the 
mocking question — Should a mother be punished for the 
love she bears her children ? — was answered. Not in punish- 
ment to me, but in mercy to them, had they been called, 
and not love, but selfish idolatry had I borne them. Love 
is all disinterested, and my affection was all selfish. I, pre- 
ferred my own happiness to theirs ; I wished them back, 
not because I could make them happier, but because I was 
lonely without them.’ She paused, and as I looked into her 
face I wondered I had ever thought her proud and unfeel- 
ing ; instead of a cold, passionless countenance, there was a 
sweet Madonna expresssion indelibly stamped upon it. I 
unrolled my sewing ; gently taking it from me, she resumed * 


60 


AGNES ; OK, 


‘Azriel, dark and gloomy no longer, hovered round my 
honae; I felt a heavenly Father’s love shielding and pro- 
tecting us, and I longed to know more of him and then 
she went on to tell me how she turned from the gloomy 
tenets in which she had been reared, to the reading of 
Catholic works ; how her mind expanded ; how she learned 
to bury the selfishness of her sorrow, and feel for those 
who had been spared. In fine, how she was led on to the 
possession of the greatest gift God can give to m^ — the 
possession of the True Faith ; ‘ and now you see, Martha,’ 
she added, ‘ the loss of my children was the way God 
chose to reveal himself to me. Had they been left, I 
would have centred my thoughts on earth, and never once 
raised them to heaven. In a thousand ways our Heavenly 
Father draws the hearts of his children to him. Sorrow is 
the ministering angel that leads many to God that other- 
irise would never know him.’ And then she said she knew 
I was astonished that she would open a chapter of her life 
to me, but she saw I was in sorrow, and wished to com- 
fort me. * I have given you my confidence,’ she said, ‘ will 
you not now give me yours V I was taken by surprise ; I 
wished to speak of your sickness, and yet I dared not ; for 
I know, by sad experience, however strong we may consider 
ourselves, a little thing often sweeps away our good resolu- 
tions, as fall wind sweeps away the dry leaves. She had 
said’ it was a fever of which her children died, and might 
not the very mention of the word fever cause her heart to 
thrill with terror ?” 

“ Martha, how could yomfeel so, after all she said ?” 

‘‘ I don’t know, Alfred ; but the one great fear that I 
might lose my place, and, then, what would become of us 
all, made me blind to every thing else. You know mother 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


61 


depended entirely on my wages to get you your necessaries ; 
bearing this in mind, I preferred to have her think it was 
altogether father’s death which caused my grief.” 

“ Poverty has its mercies as well as its sorrows,” said 
Mrs. Clement, looking up from her sewing; “ the toils and 
cares arising from our poverty often made me forget for 
a while the great loss we had sustained, and the anguish 
was' so great when I did think of it, that if I had had 
nothing else to occupy my mind I should have been 
crazy.” * 

“ How true your remark, mother ! But, Martha, go on ; 
what did you say to Mrs. Hilton 1” 

“ Well, I told her of father’s death ; how he had been 
ailing for years, and how at last he died of, what the doctors 
call, quick consumption. But I did not say one word of 
our great poverty, or where we lived, or that father had ever 
been a teacher, or that we were strangers in the city. No, 
no, I could not — I could not.” 

“ Martha, you were always proud.” 

“ No, Alfred, it was not pride ; but the same fear which 
prevented my telling of your sickness. If she had heard 

all this, she would have searched us out, and then 

And then,” said Alfred, quickly interrupting her, “ with 
her benevolent heart, instead of dismissing you, would 
have helped us all. Martha, Martha, it was pride.” 

“Pride, Alfred, pride! no, you are mistaken. Think 
you it would have been no gratification to me to have told 
what a great scholar father was, how much respected by all 
who knew him, what a happy home we had, and how little 
we once thought that any of us would ever have to go out to 
service ? Oh, Alfred 1 Alfred ! there might have been pride 
in telling all that, but not in the frenzied fear that kept me 


62 


AGNSS; OE, 


silent on the subject.^’ Tears gathered in her eyes, and her 
voice grew tremulous. 

“ Martha, I did not mean to reproach you, I did not. I 
am your brother ; don’t mind what I said ! Never was a 
kinder, truer sister !” 

“ I don’t, Alfred, I don’t. I was not even thinking of 
your words when the tears came, but only of Stanton and 
those dark days, and the contrast was more than I could 
bear.” 

“God’s holy will b6 done,” reverently said little Mark, 
who had been an unobserved, but attentive listener. 

“Yes, little Mark,” rejoined Alfred, “and Martha must 
say so too.” 

“I do say so, Alfred. Surely I do. When we cannot 
see the whys and wherefores of things, transpiring around 
us we are not to murmur against the providence of God, 
and distrust the fatherly care he hath over us. Dark and 
threatening may be the present hour, and the next filled 
with the fruition of Hope’s fairest promises.” 

Little Mark came up to her, and laying one hand lovingly 
on her arm, with the other bruslied the sunny curls from 
his brow. 

“ Martha,” he said, his.large earnest eyes looking dfbectly 
into hers, “ do you always feel so ?” 

A faint flush suffused her cheek. “Mark, you are a 
strange child !” she said. 

“ But tell me, Martha, do you ?” 

“ Alas, Mark, not always. Before I know it, many and 
many a time fears and cares so fill my heart, that, bowed 
down and oppressed, I scarcely know what to do. Then 
some little prayer, the remembrance of some holy picture, 
or the echo of some of the plaintive soul-stirring melodies 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


63 


of the cliurcli will come stealing through my mind, and pres- 
ently I recollect what I must do.” 

“ What is that, Martha ?” 

“ Seek assistance from God, and resign myself to his 
holy will.” ^ 

A bright light broke over his face. “ Oh, mother,” he 
said, “ I am so glad to hear it ! And now one more ques- 
tion, did you ever before that day” — referring to the day 
on which his mother had her interview with Mrs. Hilton — 
“ speak of Alfred’s sickness?” 

“ Yes, once I casually mentioned that he was not well, 
and from that she always inquired kindly after him.” 

“ She is good ; she has a kind heart,” he said emphatic- 
ally, and seated himself on the little stool at Alfred’s feet. 
“ Alfred, you look weary. I am afraid you are sitting up 
too long?*’ 

“ Perhaps I am. I do feel a little tired.” 

“ Well, wait till I lay this child on the bed, and then I 
will help you to yours.” 

Little Ellen was laid beside her sister, then, disengaging 
the blanket from him, Martha helped him to arise. 

“ There now, I can walk alone.” He smiled ; she thought 
his Smile wore a shade of sadness. 

“ I was thinking,” he weariedly said, in reply to her mute 
question, as she smoothed the bed-clothes around him, “ how 
weak and helpless I have been. Even more weak and help- 
less than little Clara.” 

‘‘Is that all?” she exclaimed in a cheerful tone, while 
she stooped and kissed his pale brow, “ is that all, Alfred ? 
Why, in a few weeks you will be as well as ever ! How 
much stronger you are than you were last week ! You are 
tired now, but go to sleep, and when you awake I will>^® 


64 


AGIS'ES; OE, 


you a nice roast apple and a cup of refreshing tea.” She 
enforced her command with another kiss, and was turning 
away, when he caught her hand. 

“ Get your chair, Martha, and sit down here. I want you 
to tell me all about Miss Agnes. I love to hear every thing 
of the family, they have been so kind.” 

A change came over Martha’s countenance. Her pale 
hand went up to her forehead, as if to drive away some 
disagreeable thought. Miss Agnes ! how little the invalid 
boy dreamed of her pride and haughtiness to his loved 
sister ; but she had never spoken of it, and far be it from 
her to mention it now. Her brother noticed her silence. 

“ Don’t you like her ? Is she not kind to you ?” he 
asked, in a low confidential tone. A gentle smile played 
over Martha’s face. 

“ Miss Agnes,” she replied, in a mild, equable voice, “could 
take after neither father nor mother without possessing a 
kind heart ; and to-day she told me she was glad you were 
so much better, and she hoped you would soon be entirely 
well.” 

“ Did she say that ? Did she say she hoped I would 
soon be entirely well ?” 

“Yes, Alfred ; she did.” 

“ And now do, Martha, tell me all about her. I am more 
anxious than ever to know.” 

“ No, no, Alfred. I have already talked too much, and you 
are tired.” 

“ Well, just one word : is she pleasant and agreeable in 
her manner, like her father ?” 

“ In person she resembles him more than her mother.” 

“ But that don’t answer me, Martha. Is she proud and 
'-'sdainful, or humble and unassuming — ^like him ?” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


65 


“ She is very beautiful, Alfred, very talented, and to her 
friends warmly attached. She is not one of the giddy 
butterflies of fashion, but seems utterly to despise the hollow- 
heartedness of so-called fashionable life. If one is to be 
judged by their friends, you would surely pronounce her a 
very amiable, discreet, and sensible person, for such they are.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, Martha. .. For your sake, I am glad 
to. hear it.” 

“ And now, Alfred, try to go to sleep ! You are tired, 
and need rest.” 

She left his bedside, and busied herself about the house ; 
but, perceiving the eyes of her invalid brother followed her 
every movement, she sat down, and, opening little Mark’s 
book, soon had the satisfaction of seeing him in a peaceful 
slumber. 

Reflection on the duties of her religion taught her to 
avoid the sin of detraction. To her mother and Alfred 
she might have told her grieved feelings without fear that 
her confidence would have been misplaced — and it cannot 
be denied but it would have given her great satisfaction 
just to have breathed to them how much she really did 
dislike her. But “ a watch was before her mouth ; and a 
door round about her lips.” 

Worldly prudence and foresight would have whispered : 
“You may tell them — your brother and mother — and fear 
no after-consequence. They are your true friends ; your 
welfare is their welfare; your interest their interest.” 
Listening to such couhsel, she would have told them all, and 
the after-fate of the whole family would have been ruined 
by it. Not many months had passed till she herself was 
sensible of this, and rejoiced that she had been restrained. 


66 


AGNES; OB, 


CHAPTER y. 

Mr. Hilton was seated in his counting-room, examining 
and arranging papers, when the door opened, and a clerk 
announced Father Joseph. 

“ Show him in, show him in. I am all through now — 
hut, James,” he called the clerk back, “ you cast up tho 
account I handed you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, here are some more papers. You are to look 
them over to-day.” 

Father Joseph soon made his appearance ; he was rather 
in years, with a kind, benevolent countenance. Mr. Hilton 
advanced and warmly shook his hand. 

“Good morning, Father Joseph, good morning! A 
bright sky overhead, but, nevertheless, a bitter cold day ! 
Let me draw this arm-chair nearer the fire.” 

He wheeled up a large office chair. Father Joseph sank 
into it ; the weather, and, after that, the rise and fall of 
stocks was fully discussed. All through, the good priest’s 
countenance wore a puzzled expression ; it seemed there 
was something he -wished to say, but scarcely knew how to 
introduce it. “ Come, Father,” said Mr.^Hilton, perceiving his 
embarrassment, “ there’s something on your mind ; out with 
it. Is it to head another subscription list ? or has some 
poor family been burned out or froze to death ? Which ?” 

“ Not either,” replied Father Joseph, with a smile. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


67 


“ My penetration is for once in fault. Then say, Father, 
what is it ?” 

“ I have called, Mr. Hilton, to see you about the Clement 
family.” 

“ What, the widow Clement, that lately lost her husband, 
and whose son has been so sick ?” 

“ The very same.” 

“Did you know Mr. Clement, Father?” 

“ Only from the time he came to reside in the city, but 
he seemed always to have been a most exemplary Chris- 
tian.” 

“ I hear from Alfred that he was well educated and re- 
fined.” 

“Yes, Mr. Hilton, he was a thorough scholar; teaching 
was his vocation.” 

“ And I have an idea, Father, that he was proud and 
sensitive, and but illy able to struggle with difficulties and 
rise above them.” 

“ He was very feeble, Mr. Hilton, from the first time I 
saw him. Sorrows and disappointments crowded fast upon 
him, and he sank under them. But, if one blest with an 
iron constitution can easily ride the storms of adversity, 
’tis unjust to expect one whose strength is all shattered to 
do the same.” 

“Very true. Father, very true.” ^ 

After a brief pause, Father Joseph resumed : “ On the 
death of Mr. Clement, Martha obtaining a situation in your 
family, and Alfred continuing in Mr. Simonds’s store, I 
thought they might get along quite comfortably. About 
this time I was called to visit my sick sister; I went, stayed 
with her till she died, attended her funeral, and immediately 
returned home. The Sunday after, I noticed none of the 


68 


AGNES ; OE, 


family attended Mass, and, as soon as I could, I called on 
them. Oh, how wretched they had been, and Alfred, how 
sick ! But you had been there, Mr. Hilton, and with tears 
in her eyes, the widow told me all your and Mrs. Hilton’s 
kindness to them.” 

“ Out of the abundance with which God has blessed me, 
Father, it was nothing, a mere nothing.” 

“ Would, Mr. Hilton, that all the rich felt so ! then we 
should hear less complaining of the importunities of the 
poor ! But you have not seen Mrs. Clement herself,” he 
observed, rather than asked. 

“ No, Father ; she happened to be out every time I have 
called.” 

“ So she told me. She says she has wished much to see 
you, but felt she could not.” 

“ Why, Father, why should she wish to see me, and yet 
shrink from meeting me ?” 

“ She was right. She said you had forgotten her ; but, 
now I will tell you.” He laid his hand on Mr. Hilton’s 
knee, and spoke in his slow, earnest manner. His words 
had a strange effect on his listener ; at first a vague, won- 
dering expression rested on his countenance ; then, wildly 
starting up, he exclaimed : 

“ My God ! my God ! can it he possible ? Oh, Father ! 
Father ! how has she suffered ! Why didn’t she come to 
me ? Why didn’t she let me know ?” 

“ I have given you her reason,” mildly replied the priest. 

“ Oh, the past ! the past ! and is it thus we meet ?” He 
arose, and excitedly paced the room. At length, becoming 
more calm, he resumed his seat. 

“ Father,” he said, “ painful memories have been stirred 

painful, painful.” 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


69 


“Not as painful to you as to her.” 

“I don’t know, Father. That fatal step, how much 
wretchedness has it caused ! This very day I must see her ; 
must hear from her own lips all you yourself have told 
me.” 

“ The tale wrung tears from her eyes, Mr. Hilton ; do not 
ask her to repeat it.” 

“ But, Father, I cannot see her without referring to it, 
and, referring to it, I shall have to go over it all.” 

“ And, notwithstanding my fears, Mr. Hilton, it may re- 
lieve her poor heart. Pray God it may !” Taking his hat, 
he arose. 

“ Not so soon, Father.” 

“Yes, Mr. Hilton. It is only three days till Christmas, 
and, as you may suppose, I have a busy time of it.” 
Father Joseph took his departure. 

The afternoon of the next day, Mr. Hilton sat alone in 
his library ; his elbow rested on the arm of his chair, and 
his head leaned on his open palm. He was buried deep in 
thought, and the knit brow and firmly compressed lips 
gave to his usually mild countenance a stern expression. 
He had been reviewing the past, and sorrows, that had once 
stung him to the heart, now rose phantom-like before him. 
He Struggled to break from them, but they rushed faster 
upon him. Suppressing a groan, he raised his hand and 
swept the heavy locks from his hot brow. 

“ My God !” he exclaimed, “ can I not even now go back 
to those days without feeling an unmanly weakness coming 
ever me ?” He arose, and crossing his hands behind him, 
with bowed head, slowly walked up and down the room. 
For some time he continued his walk ; gradually the dark 
scenes passed away, and pleasant faces that had gathered 


VO 


AGNES ; OR, 


.around him in the morning of life, lighting by kind voices 
and gentle ministrations the loneliness of a bereaved heart, 
rose before him. Not a wrinkle appeared on their brows, 
not a white hair mingled in their locks ; as they appeared 
in the olden time, so now they smiled upon him from the 
picture gallery of the past. 

He counted the years that had fled, and as he glanced 
at the garnered memories of each, tears filled his eyes. 
.How often had he longed to hear once more the voices 
that had cheered and encouraged him on ; but they had 
been strangely, suddenly hushed, and a mystery he could 
not unravel had hung around their silence — had hung, I 
say, for since his interview with Father Joseph, the mys- 
tery in part had been unveiled. ’Tis not my purpose here 
to tell his past; suffice it to say, that the poor widow 
Clement held a deep claim on the wealthy merchant — a 
claim he shrank not from, but conscientiously strove to 
meet. He ran over in his mind a thousand projects how 
he might, without wounding their sensitive natures, place 
them in circumstances which would be more suitable to 
the refinements of their manners, and more in unison with 
their former way of living. He had called on Mrs. Clem- 
ent, and after a long conversation with her had delicately 
broached the subject. With moistened eyes she thanked 
him for his kindness, but, with a firmness that both pained 
and surprised him, refused to have Martha change her 
present humble station in his family, and, as soon as Alfred 
got able, insisted on his being allowed to resume his place 
in Mr. Simonds’s store. As to Ellen and Clara, as long as 
she was blessed with health they could get along very well ; 
but, while a faint flush suffused her pale cheeks, and even 
spread over her deeply lined brow, she spoke of Mark, 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


11 


and tlie education they had intended giving him. Anxious 
to do something . for the family, he at once offered to 
educate him ; nay, more, the few times he had called on 
them, Mark had greatly interested him, and now, in the 
impulse of the moment he offered to adopt him. The first 
offer Mrs. Clement joyfully accepted, and, after a short 
pause, she also accepted the second. She knew, in his 
fine home, away from the drudgery of the schools, he could 
do much to advance her feeble child, and, with all a mother’s 
fond love, she determined to resign him. Mark was the 
pride of them all, and to let him go, would be a bitter 
sacrifice ; but she knew, too, that their love was greater 
than their pride, and, all unselfish as real love ever is, would 
not stand in the way of his good fortune. 

Mr. Hilton, pleased with her ready acceptance of his 
ofter, after some further conversation, left her, and returned 
to his counting-room. The remainder of the day, the 
thought that the dear child was soon to become a member 
of his family, filled his heart with a wondrous feeling of 
satisfaction. A smile played round his features, and a 
light rested in his eyes. But now, alone in his library, he 
fears that he has been precipitate. Was it right to offer to 
adopt a child without first consulting his wife ? would she 
be able to take the care of him ? He knew she was one 
that, however feeble, could never resign to hirelings the 
forming and moulding of his tender mind. He felt ashamed to 
go back of his offer ; but could he not tell the widow, that, 
on reflection, he thought it would be better for Mark to re- 
main at home with her, under the care of a kind and com- 
petent tutor, till he would, become of an age to be placed in 
college ? Yes, that is what he would do. He resumed his 
seat, and, opening his desk, took out some papers ; one 


72 


AGNES ; OK, 


sheet was partly written over ; taking a pen, he quickly 
filled it out and then placed them all back again. A vexed 
and worried expression rested on his face. The widow’s 
firmness in refusing to have Martha change her humble 
station in his family exceedingly annoyed him. If he 
strongly insisted, he knew her of old, and could easily fore- 
see the consequence ; she would take her home, and in some 
other family find her the same situation. If Martha must 
be out to service, he preferred to have her under his own 
roof, where he would be sure of her meeting kindness and 
sympathy. Poor child! how grievously might not her 
sensitive nature be wounded by the vain, thoughtless 
children of wealth, and how deeply her mother’s obstinacy 
in this respect pained him ! What would Agnes, with all 
her pride, say to having an adopted brother, supposing Mrs. 
Hilton agreed to his proposals — brother to their seamstress, 
she in the house at the same time ? Ah ! he knew it would 
sorely mortify her. But why should it mortify her ? Why 
should not the fact of his sister’s honorably and industri- 
ously earning her support rather excite her . admiration ? 
Martha was very intelligent ; Mark not only very beautiful, 
but more than commonly gifted ; why should she feel her- 
self above them ? Them, above all others ! Them ! them I 
“ Oh, she must know the past, it must be told to her, but 
not now, not now !” he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration 
from his forehead ; and hastily turning from a subject ex- 
tremely painful to him, he thought of her engagement with 
Walter Starr. How unlike they were! Walter with his 
bright laughing eye, and frank open countenance — Agnes 
with her cold, haughty bearing, and unyielding will ! How 
would they agree ? Walter only looked upon her surpass- 
ing loveliness, and touching kindness to her few privileged 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


73 


friends, and lie hoped to possess that loveliness, and he 
the constant recipient of that kindness. Just so we have 
seen marriages made : only the pleasant traits in each 
other’s characters have been studied ; the darker shades have 
been passed over — left to be conned at leisure, after the 
indissoluble knot is tied, and many a sad lesson in very 
bitterness of heart has then been learned. 

On Agnes, the last remaining one of his little household, 
all the wealth of a father’s love was centred ; and now, 
turning from the undimmed past, he strove to pierce for 
her the veiled future, and in many respects not so closely 
veiled either, for if one must reap as they sow, if we know 
when we put in the seed in the spring what the crop in 
the fall shall be, so, does not the present disposition of 
those about us foretell, in a great measure, their after hap- 
piness or misery ? If Agnes’s kindness, so gentle and 
soothing in its touching tenderness, so prized, because it 
was reserved only for the few and not lavished on the many, 
could not at all times shield her dearest friends, her parents 
even, from the proud, freezing taunt, and cold, disdainful 
glance, how would he be able to escape them ? Under 
his genial surface was a quick, fiery temper, that was terri- 
ble when once roused. How would the cold, mocking 
pride of the one, and the impetuous temper of the 
other agree, when brought together ? Agnes had been en- 
gaged to Walter three years ; choosing the legal profession, 
he had the year before been admitted to the bar, and was 
now in New York, connected with an eminent practitioner. 
As soon as well established, Mr. Hilton was to resign to 
him his only child, and the heart of the father feared that 
if Agnes, his darling Agnes, learned not to curb her proud, 
haughtv will — learned not to place a restraint upon her tur- 
4 


74 


AGNES ; OE, 

bulent passion, wben once in the home of her husband, their 
mutual love and admiration would be changed to hatred 
and disgust. Far better they should never again meet; 
and yet he knew, to Agnes, parting with the object of her 
best earthly affections would be worse than death. But if 
.death would be preferable to meeting him no more, what 
would be the agony of losing his Ic^e, and finding her own 
for him changed into hatred ? With a groan, he turned 
from the contemplation of so fearful a picture, and, involun- 
tarily clasping his hands, sent up an earnest prayer for 
his proud, wilful child ; then, resting his head on his open 
palm, the contracted brow showed that thought was again 
busy. Might not the taking of little Mark be, not only the 
paying of a just claim, but teaching a lesson to Agnes, that 
would do her good her whole life ? mighjb it not, under her 
father’s roof, away from the evil-minded remarks of a mis- 
judging world, be the means of opening her eyes to the 
enormity of her besetting sin ? It might ! It might ! The 
clouds once more cleared from his brow. He reached 
out his hand, and took up a book ; opening it, he tried to 
read, but the letters all ran into each other, only a con- 
fused blur met his eye ; closing the volume, he ex-* 
claimed : 

“ I may as well tell Ellen now as at any other time, for 
I won’t be easy till it’s off my mind I” 

Kising, he touched the bell-rope. A servant answered 
his call. 

“ Tell Mrs. Hilton I would be pleased to see her.” Seat- 
ing himself, he leaned his head against the bright velvet 
lining of his chair, and waited his wife’s coming. A quiet 
step was heard along the passage, and, opening the door, 
Mrs. Hilton came in. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


75 


“You wished to see me?” she said, in her low, calm 
voice. 

“ Yes, Ellen,” he replied, drawing up a chair ; “ I’ve a 
plan to lay before you.” 

Seating herself, she asked : “ Well, what is it ?” 

In a quick, nervous manner, he brushed the hair from 
his forehead, and abruptly said : 

“ I have been thinking of our adopting a boy.” 

She slightly started, but without any change of counte- 
nance, asked : 

“ How long have you been thinking of it ?” 

“ Ah, that means if I have Avell considered it,” he re- 
marked, with one of his genial smiles. 

“ Yes, it does.” 

“Well, to tell the truth, I have not long thought of it; 
but since it first came into my mind. I’ve thought of it 
very hard.” Again he smiled, and drawing his chair 
nearer hers, in an earnest voice continued ; 

“ Ellen, I have carefully considered the subject in all its 
bearings, and I know, if we take a child, it is not to humor 
and pamper him till we get tired of him, and then cast him 
oif ; no, we must feed him, clothe him, educate him, and 
do for him in all things as if he were our own. We may 
never feel that deep afiection*for him that we do for iVgnes, 
but — ” 

“ But what ?” she almost impatiently asked. 

“ But, Ellen, who knows but that he may so twine him- 
self round our hearts that he will seem like our dead 
Arthur come back to us?” 

“ He possibly may, but it seems improbable. What 
child do you think of taking — for, of course, you have one 
already in your mind ?” 


78 


AGNES ; OR, 


“ That is true, Ellen ; I have been thinking of little 
Mark Clement.” 

“ Little Mark, is it?” a bright light broke over her face. 
“ I have seen him ; he visits Martha. What a sweet man- 
nerly child he is ! Surely, I have no objection to your 
taking him, and Agnes will be so proud of him.” . 

“ Ah ! I don’t know about that. The very fact of his 
being brother to our seamstress will, I fear, be a source of 
great annoyance to her. In many instances in taking a 
child, it is well to have all connection with its old home 
broken up — where its parents and other members of its 
family are vicious and depraved : but in Mark’s case no 
snch necessity exists : his mother is a pious, exemplary 
woman ; Alfred, an intelligent boy, of steady, industrious 
habits ; and Martha, being employed in the house, you 
know what she is.” 

“ She is a good, faithful girl,” said Mrs. Hilton, drawing 
up a screen to shade her face from the full glare of the 
fire. 

“ Well, then, we cannot object to Mark’s visiting his fam- 
ily, and they, in return, visiting him.” 

“ Certainly not.” ^ * 

“But, Ellen, our keeping up this connection with his 
friends, will sorely try our Agnes’s pride.” 

“ Very true. I did not think of that.” 

“ But,” continued Mr. Hilton, while a stern, sad expres- 
sion settled on his face, “ if the case had been reversed ; 
if our children had been spared, and on us, instead of them, 
the dark clouds of poverty had settled, obscuring all the 
brightness of our lives, and making it impossible to educate 
our gifted Arthur ; and if through love of him, and to see 
him receive an education suitable to his talents, we should 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


77 


intrust him to other hands, would we not wish occasionally 
to visit him, and have him, in return, visit us ? Ellen, would 
_ it not break our hearts to be debarred seeing him, and to 
ki/ow the memory of us, his parents, was carefully erased 
from his mind ; or, if remembered still, only with the pain- 
ful regret that to us he owed his being ?” 

“ Say no more ! say no more !” she exclaimed, raising 
her hand and waving back, as it were, the dreadful vision 
he had called up. Better, far better for our son to be taken 
home to God — but,” she suddenly started up, as the idea 
presented itself to her mind, “ you surely cannot think I 
would wish to hinder little Mark seeing his friends. His 
mother I truly respect ; she has borne her sorrows with all 
the bravery of a true Christian, and God forbid that mere 
poverty should appear odious to us, unworthy servants of 
Him who chose His disciples fronu among the poor !” 

“ I do not doubt your kindness or generosity, Ellen ; but 
our Agnes is so foolish, so obstinate. Where, in the name 
of wonder, did she get her pride ? Surely not from the 
example we have set her.” 

“ You forget the baneful influence of the world on a 
young and inexperienced girl.” 

Impatiently brushing the hair from his brow, he ex- 
claimed : 

“ I shouldn’t think the influence of the world could so 
far counteract the influence of home. I tell you, Ellen, 
our Agnes is proud, deeply proud at heart.” 

“ She is. Alas ! she is;” truth forced from the pale lips 
of the mother. 

“ You have spoken to her about it ?” 

“Yes; but I don’t see as it does much good.” Tears 
trembled in her eyes. 


18 


AGNES ; OR, 


Looking thoughtfully into the grate, Mr. Hilton ob- 
served: 

“ Where words fail, prayer will succeed;” then, turning 
gently to his wife, he said : 

“ Ellen, we must not speak to her too much on the sub- 
ject. It will only sour her feelings against us, without in 
the least benefiting her. In taking the child, her pride 
will be crossed ; this will cause much bitterness at first, 
but in the end, with the blessing of God, will do more in 
opening her eyes to her besetting sin than all we could ever 
say.” 

“ But prayer, you said, would do that.” 

“ I say so still. Taking Mark and praying for her, not 
contending with her, will transform her from a cold, haughty 
worldling, to a meek, humble Christian.” 

“ Pray God it may ! But you do not know her as well 
as I, her mother. She is one, her very pride makes her 
such, that the more you oppose her, the more determined 
she becomes. In taking the child on the conditions you 
have named — and we could not in justice take him on any 
other — her wishes will be opposed, her thoughts embittered, 
and her will determined.” 

“ Arid then/ what, Ellen?” 

“ Her heart will be turned against us, and she will learn 
to look upon us as her greatest enemies.” 

“ Only for a time, Ellen*! Only for a time ! You surely 
have not lost faith in prayer ?” 

“ No, not iii prayer. But this terrible pride — it aweeps 
the soul with avalanshian force, carrying every gentler feel- 
ing with it. I have seen sad instances of it.” She sighed 
and turned her face to the screen. 

After a somewhat lengthened pause, Mr. Hilton said : 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


79 


You do not object to my taking the child ?” 

“God forbid I should ! no, no; take him, by all means 
take him. In the mean time, a mother’s daily prayer shall 
go up for her erring one.” 

Mr. Hilton leaned back in his chair, and regarded his 
wife with a look of unutterable affection. At length, he 
said : 

“Well, now, Ellen, you not objecting to our taking little 
Mark Clement, I must tell you it is not altogether a com 
mOn feeling of humanity which prompts me to this step. 
His family have a deep claim on me ; I only lately recog 
nized them, but now I must tell you a sad chapter of my 
early years.” 

She looked up wonderingly into his face ; he drew his 
chair still nearer hers, and in a low voice, for it seemed a 
subject so sacred to him, that he could not bear a jarring 
sound to come near it, told her scenes of his past life he 
had never told her before. During the recital she at times 
grew very pale, and again a bright flush swept over, her 
face. On its conclusion, she sat for some moments silent, 
then looking up, in a reproachful voice said : 

“ Why did you not tell me this before ?” 

“ Because I wished you to be unbiased in your opinion. 
If it had been against your wishes to have the child in the 
house, I could otherwise have provided for him. Oh, 
Ellen !” he exclaimed, taking her hand and reverently rais- 
ing it to his lips, “ you cannot imagine how happy you 
have made me. Blessings, blessings, rest on you ! As to 
Agnes, let every thing be just as, it is for the present ; in 
due time she shall know all; and, as soon as convenient, 
you will please prepare her to receiv’^e Mark Clement as her 
adopted brother. With her foolish pride, I know she’ll 


80 


AGNES ; OB, 


object, but you concurring, her objection will be noth- 
ing.” 

“ Heaven be praised for the gift of so inestimable a com- 
panion !” he fervently ejaculated, as Mrs. Hilton passed on 
to her room. 


4 


VIEWS OE CATHOLICITY. 81 

-'* 3 ^ ' X,- 


- • CHAPTER VI. 

It was the day before Christmas, and Agnes Hilton, af- 
ter putting a few finishing touches to a drawing before 
her, threw down her crayon, and, taking up the drawing, 
repaired to her mother’s room. Her countenance was bril- 
liant and animated. 

“Oh, mother!” she exclaimed, sinking on an ottoman at 
her feet, and holding up the picture, “ don’t you think it 
beautiful ? The more I gaze on that lovely face the more 
I admire it.” 

“ And have you copied it so soon?” asked Mrs. Hilton, 
.glancing down on the features of the youthful St. John. 

“Yes, mother. I meant to copy that wild scene from 
the Alps first, but I could not wait ; I must have this.” 

“You have caught the expression of the eyes exactly, 
Agnes.” , 

“ Yes, I flatter myself I have ; but there is one thing I 
did not get.” 

“ Whaf is that ?” 

“ The smile of melting tenderness about the mouth. In 
the original — I mean that from which I copied — it is all 
hope, all peace and joy, and in this, do you not perceive in 
the peace and hope a shade of sadness J” 

“ Yes, as I gaze longer on it, I think I do. But it makes 
it all the more resemble a child that I have seen.” 

“ A child that you have seen !” 

4 ?. 


4 


82 AGNES ; OE, 

“Yes, Agnes. It is, in fact, so close a resemblance that 
it might easily pass for his likeness.” 

“ Why, mother, who is it ?” she asked, looking eagerly 
up. 

“ Little Mark Clement.” 

“ Little Mark Clement !” she exQlaimed ; then once more 
directing her eyes to the drawing, slowly said : “ I don’t 
know but that there is some resemblance. I did not think 
of it before, but he is certainly a sweet-looking child.” 

“ And have you noticed, Agnes, what' a gentle voice he 
has?” 

“Yes, mother, I have. One day I went into Martha’s 
room, when he was visiting her. It was the first time I 
ever saw him ; he seemed quite afraid of me, and shrank 
back ; I looked at him a moment and then reached out my 
hand, ‘ Come here,’ I said, ‘ and tell me what is your name.’ 
‘ Little Mark Clement,’ he answered, at once coming for- 
ward, and laying his little, trembling hand in mine. His 
voice had so touching a sweetness in it, that I wished to 
prolong the conversation. I put to him several questions 
about hoops, and balls, and jack-straws, something, you 
know, that I thought would be interesting to him, but, 
mother, he scarcely knew any thing about them. I then 
asked him, did he know Father Joseph ; his countenance 
at once brightened. Ah ! yes, he did right well. Andthen 
he told me how much^he loved him ; how kind Father Jo- 
seph had been, and what beautiful books he had given 
him. ‘Did he ever give you any pictures?’ I asked, think- 
ing that, as soon as I had finished those little pieces, ‘ Win- 
ter Spoils of St. Petersburgh,’ and ‘ The Blind Fiddler and 
his Pets,’ I would send them to him. ‘ No,’ he said, ‘ he 
has not yet given me any, but he has promised me some.’ 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


83 


I really enjoyed his society, there was such an odd mixture 
of the gravity of age and the artlessness of childhood about 
him. Ah ! he is a charming child.” She arose from the 
^ ottoman, and, laying the drawing on the table, sank into 
an arm-chair. 

Mrs. Hilton thought- now was the favorable moment to 
introduce the subject of Mark’s adoption. 

“ And how, Agnes,” she asked, “ would you like him for 
a brother ?” 

“Why, mother!” she exclaimed, “like Mark for my 
brother ?” 

“Yes, Agnes; for your brother.” 

“ If he was my brother I should love him and be proud 
of him. But why do you ask ? You know I have no 
brother. ’Tis years since Arthur died, and your question 
is only a mockery, reminding me of the treasure Death 
snatched away.” Tears gathered in her dark eyes. 

“ Agnes, the question is not asked in mockery, but do 
you know your father and I have concluded to adopt the 
sweet child, to fill Arthur’s place ; his mother has given her 
consent, and in a few days he is to become a member of 
our family.” 

“ Adopt him 1 Going to adopt little Mark Clement 1” 
astonishment and joy were depicted on her countenance. 

“ Yes, Agnes,” quietly said her mother, her hand moving 
faster over the netting on which she was working. 

“ And to have a Christmas surprise for me, you did not 
tell me before !” 

“ No, it was better you should know nothing of it till all 
the arrangements were made.” 

“ "What arrangements, mother ?” 

“ I don’t know as I used the right word. Condition, I 


84 


AGIOSS ; OE, 


think, would be better — till all the conditions had been 
agreed upon and settled.” 

“ And I suppose one of them is, that Martha is to be dis- 
missed, and another seamstress employed in her place ?” 

Mrs. Hilton thought it best at once to remove any such 
impression, and to tell her candidly that Martha was not to 
be dismissed, and that the connection with his family was 
not to be broken up. Her calm, mild countenance wore a 
troubled expression, but the cloud soon passed away; quietly 
unrolling the silk from her spool, in a firm but gentle voice, 
she said : 

“ Agnes, your father and I sep no necessity why Martha 
should be dismissed.” 

“ What ! keep Martha, and yet adopt her brother 

“ Yes, Agnes.” 

And I suppose that is one of the precious conditions 
his mother insisted on ?” her lips curled contemptuously. 

No, she had nothing to do with it. It was our opinion, 
your father’s and mine, that it would be cruel to send Mar- 
tha home for no other reason than that she happens to be 
sister to the child we are about adopting ; and, moreover, 
it would be cruel, too, not to allow his friends to visit him, 
and he to visit them.” 

Agnes sat for some time looking steadily at her mother. 
“ Upon my word,” she at last exclaimed, while a mocking 
smile wreathed her lips, “ these are fine conditions indeed !” 

“They are no more than just.” 

“ Just ! While you were about it, for fear of injustice and 
cruelty, you ought to have concluded to adopt the whole 
family. It will be too bad to separate them ; his mother, 
brother, and sisters had tetter be included in the adoption.” 

“Agnes, stop; this is foolish. You know they are 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


85 


respectable ; not a stain is upon their character ; they are 
only poor, and, my child, we should not despise them for 
that.” 

“ But have you not considered how more than foolish it 
will be to have Martha in the house after you have taken 
her brother? No, I know you have not ; and as to father, 
you must be mistaken about his agreeing to these conditions. 
He knows better than to allow false notions of piety to 
overcome his better judgment ; he knows, too, how unwise 
it would be to encourage such undue familiarity ; he could 
not so far forget the dignity of his family, as to make a 
seamstress equal to his daughter by adopting her brother, 
at the same time retaining her in his service. I tell you, 
mother, you must be mistaken.” 

“ But, Ao-nes, I arm not mistaken. These are the condi- 
tions he himself named to me. 

“ Mother !” 

“ Yes, Agnes, the very same.” 

An angry flush burned on each cheek, and her eyes 
flashed. 

“ Mother,” her voice was husky with passion, “ did he 
not know all this would be utterly repugnant to me ?” 

“ Agnes, dear, put away these foolish notions of pride.” 

. “But, I say, did he not?” she imperiously asked., 

“Agnes, listen to reason : how will Martha’s presence in 
the house, and the visit of little Mark’s friends, be hurtful to 
your dignity, or the dignity of any member of the family ?” 

“I tell you, mother, I will never receive him as 
brother on these conditions. You and father may cuddle 
him as much as you please, but never expect me to show 
him the least countenance.” 

Why, Agnes !” 


86 


AGNES ; OE, 


“You need not ‘ Why Agnes !’ You know my disposi- 
tion ; and you know, too, now my firm determination. If 
you would take him as sensible -parents would take a child 
I could love him ; but to have his family continually hang- 
ing round, and his sister in the house, will quite alter the 
case, will make him an object of perfect aversion to me !” 

“ Agnes ! Agnes !” 

“ I tell you it is so !” 

“And can you so soon forget his piety and charming 
manners ?” 

“ They are as nothing. Positively nothing.” Her lips 
were white with passion. Arising, she took up her drawings, 
and left the room. 

In the passage she met Martha ; casting upon her a look 
of scathing scorn, she swept past her, and entered her own 
apartment. Once there, with pale, rigid features, she walked 
up and down the softly carpeted floor. She heeded not 
the elegancies around her ; forgot that the hand of affection 
had carefully shielded her from every rude blast. She had 
risen happy that morning : Christmas and its teeming 
memories had thrown a cheering spell around her ; but now 
her mind no longer dwelt on the yule-log, mistletoe-bough, 
gift-laden tree, and all the pleasant associations of the 
coming festival. How little it takes to make the proud 
wretched ! 

Why should she object to Mark, because his sister was a 
servant in the house ? Did she fear the scorn of her 
friends ? Did she shrink from the ill-natured remarks they 
might make ? Was she afraid she might lose caste in society, 
from the plebeian connection ? No, she was afraid of none 
of these ; she knew well they were only too proud of being 
noticed by the beautiful and wealthy heiress ; and as to 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


87 


remarks, she had never cared for them before, and now 
she feared them not. Why, then, had she so hostile a feel- 
ing to the adoption, on these certainly just and humane 
conditions ? She could not herself have told why. But it 
was because the innate pride of her heart shrank from 
coming in contract with the humble and the lowly. Her 
imperious will was crossed, and the softened feeling that 
had filled her heart for the fatherless boy was changed to 
cold, bitter aversion. 

As she slowly paced her room, her eyes rested on a 
manuscript lying on the table ; at first, it only attracted a 
momentary glance, but at length, pausing in her walk, she 
looked at it more carefully. On one side was a cross and 
anchor, on the other a large wreath of flowers, and in the 
small space in the centre, the name or title of the book. 
Stooping, she read : “ Little Joe Harny ; or. Alone, All 
Alone in the World.” Taking it up, she turned the leaves, 
and carefully examined the hand. Could it be her father’s ? 
no ; it was not his hurried business style. Was it her 
mother’s ? no ; though easy and graceful, it lacked her 
exquisite finish. Nor Walter’s ? How her heart fluttered as 
she asked herself the question ; but no, it was not bis. Ah, 
whose could it be ? vShe thought of all her friends ; but it 
was not like any of theirs. Puzzled, she again turned to the 
title. “Little Joe Harny,” she mentally exclaimed, “how 
strangely familiar that name seems to my ear, or, rather, 
what a strange feeling it stirs in my heart !” She was about 
to resume her walk, when, unable to tear herself from it, 
she wheeled up her arm-chair to the table, placed an ot- 
toman before it, seated herself, and commenced its perusal : 

“It was a cold, stormy night in November, in 18 — 


88 


AGNES ; OE, 


The pale moon had concealed herself behind black, heavy 
clouds, and the wind, in wild and fitful gusts, swep^ round 
the lone country-house — sometimes in its mad revels paus- 
ing for a moment, then dying away in mournful, agonizing 
wails, making it seem, with the rain dashing against the 
window pai^es, as if the storm spirits wept for the very 
desolation they were making. So far as a cheering warmth 
and comfortable appearance, the interior of the humble 
dwelling presented a pleasing contrast to the gloom that 
reigned without. In the farther end of the room, sunk in 
a recess, and partially concealed by curtains, was a bed, one 
side of which was slightly ruffled, as if some one had but 
recently risen from it. To the right was a small bureau, 
and on it several volumes whose looks plainly indicated 
frequent and close perusal ; by the bureau was a cherry- 
colored stand, kept in company by a straight row of six or 
eight kitchen chairs. On the opposite side was a tall, clumsy- 
looking clock, reaching from the floor to the low white- 
washed ceiling, and on each side of it a door, one leading 
into a bedroom, the other into a buttery. At the other 
end of the apartment was a large old-fashioned fireplace, 
with a pile of logs on one side, on the other two more 
doors ; the firsUleading into a small chamber, the second 
into a cellar. 

“ A bright fire blazed on the hearth, and diffused a genial 
warmth through the room. Seated on a low stool, in rather 
close proximity to it, was a little boy of ten or eleven years ; 
he was bending over, intently engaged in arranging narrow 
strips of leather and bits of cord into — it would have been 
impossible to say what, had it not been for the large, 
shaggy, good-natured-looking dog which stood near, and 
watched with so much interest his young master’s proceed- 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


89 


ings; but Douce’s impatience to belp little Joe along, 
first by thrusting his huge head into the noose-like ap- 
pendage of the cord, then dexterously extricating himself, 
.and taking up in his mouth a bit of the leather, at once ex- 
plained the mystery — the child was making a harness for 
his dog. 

“ By the table, drawn into the middle of the floor, was a 
tall, slender woman, ironing. The line directly over her 
head, attached to four hooks, and forming an oblong square, 
was almost fllled with smoothly ironed and neatly folded 
clothes. She was thirty or thirty-flve years of age, and 
her countenance, beautiful and intellectual in the highest 
degree, wore a look of deep anxiety and care. At times 
she would pause in her work, and gaze at the attenuated 
form wrapped in the warm blanket, and seated in the easy 
arm-chair, large tears would All her eyes, and, trembling on 
her lids for a moment, quickly chase each other down her 
pale cheeks ; then, seeming to recollect herself, she would, 
turn aside her head, dash away the pearly drops, and re- 
sume her work with a wild haste, that expressed more 
plainly than words, the anguish of her heart. He who, 
three months before, had scarcely known one hour’s sick- 
ness in his whole life, how weak, how helpless now ! That 
once powerful frame, how painfully contracted ! That broad 
and lofty brow, how deathly pale and deeply marked ! 
No wonder she was sad — she, who felt so unable to struggle 
with the storms of life — to lose the noble protector who had 
chosen her, a poor orphan girl, above all the rest of the 
world ; had cherished her* with such kindness, been so 
mindful of her wants, to go now, and leave her once more 
alone and friendless, oh ! the thought was agonizing ! And 
covering her face with her hands, she wept convulsively. 


90 


AGNES ; OR, 


while the wind swept round the house in mournful cadences, 
as if chanting a requiem for all her withered hopes. 

“ The land in this section of the country had been only a 
few years under the plough of cultivation ; but a number of 
families moving in about the same time, Mr. llarny knew, 
the soil being rich, that, under the hands of these hardy 
pioneers, the trackless forest would soon be laid low, the 
land be made to yield her annual crops of golden grain, the 
busy hum of machinery eventually follow the re-echoing 
strokes of the wearied axe, and, in fine, the dark wilderness, 
under the enterprising industry of man, would, in a few 
years, teem with all the comforts and conveniences of civili- 
zation. His means were limited, but why on this account 
despond ? Was not this the very spot on which to build 
a competence for later years ? How many had commenced 
life with even less ! Had he not the strength and buoyancy 
of youth to help him along? Yes; here he would labor 
and plant the ivy and fig tree under which to repose in the 
peaceful decline of life. Here, then, he settled, and in a 
few years was able to exchange his rude log-cabin for his 
present comparatively comfortable dwelling. His little 
farm had gradually yielded acre after acre to the axe, till 
only one lot of seven or eight acres remained unconquered ; 
but, the year preceding on which our story opens, this, too, 
had been cleared, and now he thought of enlarging his 
farm. But, alas, how often sickness, when least expected, 
lays ber prostrating hand upon us, and upsets our best- 
formed plans ! In piling up and burning the logs on this 
piece, and hurrying to prepare it for a fall crop, he 
brought on a severe hemorrhage from the lungs, and for 
weeks after hovered between life and death. 

“When his neighbors heard of his affliction, they hastened 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


or 


to his bedside and offered every assistance in their power. 
Although a staunch member of that proscribed and hated 
creed, the Catholic religion, Mr. Ilarny, by his kind, oblig- 
ing disposition and irreproachable life, had overcome their 
prejudice, and gained their sincere respect. Besides, his 
education was far superior to theirs, and many times had 
he settled their accounts, and amicably adjusted their affairs^ 
when, but for his ftiendly intervention, they would have had 
recourse to law, and, in the serious expenses of litigation, 
lost the little they had so laboriously gathered together. 
For these kind offices, he invariably refused any other re- 
muneration than, when in need, as he would lightly say, 
they would do as much for him. And well now did they 
remember the oft-made promise ; several offered themselves 
to sit by his bedside and take charge of his medicines 
during the long watches of the night ; others, consulting 
together, came to the conclusion the doctor in their place 
was not to be depended on in so urgent a case, and hearing 
j that a skilful physician resided in a village twelve miles 
distant, one went for him, while another carried the news 
of his sudden and very severe illness to a Mr. Connor, living 
about seven miles from them, and who, with Mr. Harny, 
formed the only representatives of Catholicity in these parts; 
as might be expected, the greatest intimacy existed be- 
tween the two families. As soon as Mr. Connor beheld 
the low state of his friend, he advised the immediate at- 
tendance of the priest. Maurice, his eldest son, a youth of 
nineteen, should, that very day, go for him. The 'nearest 
Church, indeed the only church west of New York, w^as in 

the city of A , a distance of forty miles ; but by starting . 

that afternoon, changing his horses midway, and not stop- 
ping to rest, he might return with the priest the next day. 


92 


AGNES ; OE, 


* And pray God,’ he mentally exclaimed, seeing the counte- 
nance of Mr. Harny wax paler and paler, ‘ it be not too 
late !’ 

“In the early struggles of Catholicity in this country it 
was not unusual for the poor Catholic to he years without 
an opportunity of approaching the Sacraments. If even at 
the hour of death they could send for a priest, who after 
traversing a vast area of country, over mountainous eleva- 
tions, through tedious ravines, and by almost impassable 
roads, could arrive in time to administer the last Rites of 
the Church, the poor sufferer, on the one hand, would feel 
repaid for the long years of sorrow and privation, and on 
the other, the pious and indefatigable priest, regardless of 
all his toils, would rejoice that he had been able to carry the 
consolations of our holy religion to one who, though far 
away, had never forgotten her precepts ; and as to them 
that, through human frailty, had fallen into a kind of 
spiritual lethargy, from which only the terrors of approach- 
ing death could arouse them, would not the minister of Him 
who said : ‘ There shall be joy in heaven upon one sinner 
that doeth penance,’ feel his heart swell with gratitude 
that he had been chosen to lead back the strayed sheep to 
the fold of his loving Master. Often, on returning from 
these laborious missions to his humble home, instead of 
obtaining that rest he so much needed, he would find 
others anxiously waiting to conduct him by the rough and 
difficult roads of those days, to some other equally remote 
place. Mindful only for his Master’s cause, cheerfully lay- 
ing aside all thoughts of personal comforts, the saint-like 
priest would urge on his exhausted energies, till it not un- 
frequently happened he sunk under the arduous duties of 
his widely extended mission.'^ 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


93 


“ The return of Maurice, the next day, was anxiously looked 
for ; and as the sun’s last rays were gilding the horizon, his 
tired horse drove up to the gate. Mr. Connor immediately 
went out to meet him ; perceiving him to be alone, an in- 
describable fear filled his heart. The year before, when 

they went to A , they found Father Shiel looking so 

worn, that now, seeing Maurice unattended, he asked : 

‘ Where is Father Shiel ? Where is .the priest^ my 
son ? ’ ” at the same time his heart grew sick at what he felt 
would be the anwer. 

“ ‘ Oh, father,’ he replied, his voice quivering with emo- 
tion, ‘ he is dead ! God has called him home 1’ 

‘‘ On hearing the, confirmation of his fears, Mr. Connor 
bowed his head and groaned, then, rousing himself from 
the stupor of grief, he turned and walked into the house. 
But already had the painful news preceded him ; little 
Joe had followed him, and immediately returned, bearing 
the sad intelligence to his parents. Mr. Connor said 
nothing, but, seating himself at the bedside, took his friend’s 
hands in his ; Mrs. Harny stood near, with a fixed .expres- 
sion of awe and sorrow on her pale countenance. Mr. 
Harny was the first to speak ; his eyes were directed to his 
wife. 

“ ‘ ’Tis God’s will, Agnes ;’ he faintly whispered. She 
saw the motion of his lips, and bowed her head to catch 
his words. ‘ Don’t feel bad ! ’Tis the good God who has 
taken his faithful servant home !’ Heavy drops stood on 
his brow, attesting ho^ deep had been the struggle between 
human disappointment and divine resignation. 

“For several weeks he continued very low. At length, his 
fine constitution, under the judicious treatment of Doctor 
Lamer, began to rally; he sat up the greater part of the 


94 


AGNES ; OE, 


day, rested better at night, and conversed with apparent 
ease. All his friends were sanguine in their expectations 
of his speedy recovery — all but his gentle, sorrow-stricken 
wife ; and she, alas ! was too well acquainted with the na- 
ture of that fatal and insidious disease, which at an early 
age had left her a lone orphan, to be thus easily deceived. 
It was true he was much improved, but the hollow cough 
still racked his feeble frame, and sounded a knell to any 
rising hope. 

“ On the night in which they are introduced to the reader 
a more than usual despondency had come over her. She 
could not help contrasting his pale emaciated countenance 
with what it had beewr three months before, then ruddy 
with health and glowing with animation. Conscious it 
would add to his pain to witness her sorrow, she strove, with 
all the powers of her mind, to rise above it ; first, she es- 
sayed to speak of the past, but it too painfully contrasted 
with the present ; then she turned to the future, but it arose 
60 dark and threatening before her, that, no longer able to 
restrain her feelings, she sank on the nearest chair, and, 
burying her face in her apron, wept aloud. Little Joe, ob- 
serving his mother’s sadness, had some time before laid 
aside his occupation, and now, raising his head from Douce’s 
shoulder, he hastened to her, threw his arms around her 
neck, and, in piteous tones, begged her to stop crying, or his 
heart would break. 

“ ‘ Oh, mother, don’t, don’t feel so bad ! See father, how 
pale it makes him look !’ 

“ Choking down the sobs, she glanced at her husband, and 
perceived through her tears that his countenance was paler — • 
much paler, even the hectic glow had faded from his cheek. 
Drawing her chair up, she laid her hand upon his knee : 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


95 


“ ‘Ah ! Francis,’ she exclaimed, her voice still tremulous, 
‘ I could not help it ; my heart seemed swelled to bursting.’ 

“Tenderly pressing her hand, he replied, ‘ I do not blame 
you, Agnes ; but oh, it would be such a consolation to me 
to see you more resigned to the will of God !’ He would 
have added, whether life or death betide me, but he knew 
the very mention of the word death would renew all her 
grief. 

“ ‘ I know it,’ she said, wiping the tears from her swollen 
eyes ; ‘ I know it, and I wish, for your sake, I could be more 
resigned, but I feel so lone — so lone !’ 

“ ‘ So lone, while I am with you ?’ he asked, with a sor- 
rowful smile. 

“ ‘ Oh, Francis !’ was all her full heart could say. 

“‘But, dearest, should this sickness prove the summons 
to another world, I beg you try and be resigned. Kecol- 
lect, it will be the will of God that I should go. I know,’ 
he continued, feeling her hand grow cold in his, ‘ it will be 
a hard, hard trial. But, dearest, dearest Agnes, for the 
sake of our child, our little Joe, try to be resigned and 
live.’ 

“ ‘And oh, Francis ! but for his sake I should be glad to 
go!’ 

“ ‘ I know it, dearest ; but God orders all for the best !’ 
Seeming greatly wearied, he leaned his head against the 
back of his chair, and glanced at the clock ; interpreting 
the look, she said : 

“ ‘ Yes, ’tis time for night prayers; but first let me give 
you your medicine. The doctor said you were to take it 
a few minutes before retiring.’ 

“ She went into the buttery, and soon returned with a 
glass of water in one hand, and a teaspoon and saucer in 


96 


AGNES ; OE, 


the other. In the saucer were several powders ; carefully 
examining the marks upon them, she emptied the contents 
of one into the teaspoon, put a little water into it, and 
gave it to him to swallow, immediately after she handed 
him the glass to wash down the bitter dose. 

“ After a few moments, feeling greatly rested, he said : 
‘ Get the prayer-book, dearest, I feel able to make the re- 
sponses now ; and, as I before entreated, try and be resigned. 
Resigning yourself to the will of God, who tempers the 
storm to the shorn lamb, will infuse into your soul, even in 
the midst of the greatest sorrow, a portion of heaven’s own 
peace. Know, were it not for this same resignation, Agnes, 
dear, I should now suffer the most poignant anguish at the 
thought of leaving you and little Joe ; but, confident, if our 
blessed Lord calls me, that He who hath a care over the 
birds of the air and the flowers of the field will shield and 
protect you when I am gone, I freely submit myself to 
his holy will.’ He ceased and looked thoughtfully into 
the fire ; after a few moments’ silence, laying his hand 
softly on little Joe’s head, he said : ‘ And, Agnes, remem- 
ber it v/ill not be long that we will be separated ; for, should 
you live out the three score and ten years allotted to man, 
still, so fleeting is time, compared with eternity, that it will 
seem only as a passing moment.’ 

“ ‘ True, true !’ she murmured, sinking on her knees, with 
little Joe by her side. Mr. Harny, unable to kneel, rever- 
ently bowed his head, and from that humble home arose 
the voice of prayer, like incense before the face of the 
Lord.” 

As Agnes concluded the first chapter of the manuscript, 
she leaned her cheek upon her open palm, and mused on 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


91 


what she had read. The pale, care-worn wife, struggling 
with her bitter grief ; the saint-like husband, in his pain 
and weakness, speaking words of comfort to her bleeding 
heart; the poor little boy, feeling the joyousness of his 
spring-time clouded by some great indefinable dread ; the 
intelligent house-dog nestling up close to his young mas- 
ter — all this, as upon canvas, arose before her ; while the- 
clock, pointing to the hour of prayer ; the bureau, with its 
few well-read volumes ; the stand and bed, formed the back 
ground to her picture. 

“Alas!” she exclaimed, “ into this humble and peaceful 
abode must death intrude? Why cannot he be satisfied 
with reaping in his harvest from the prison homes of the 
wretched and depraved ? Why must his sable plumes be 
forever shrouding the most beautiful scenes of earth?” 
And then she thought of the time when Arthur, Rosa, and 
Mary, her angel brother and sisters, were borne from her 
presence away^ — of the peaceful graveyard, where the rose 
and eglantine clustered around, and crept over the marble 
monument that marked their resthig-place — of the dear 
church near by, where often, of a Sunday evening, standing 
with her father in the little enclosure, she had listened to 
the choir practising the glorious anthems of the Church — 
those heaven-inspired melodies of Mozart, Handel, and 
Beethoven, till, in the ecstacy that enwrapped her soul, she 
would gaze up at the blue unfathomed dome, and feel 
only a light wall, a thin veil, hid from her view the glo- 
rious heaven where angels forever chant the praises of the 
Lord. 

As all these memories thronged upon her, she crossed 
her arms upon the table and bowed her head upon them. 
She was unconscious the door opened, and heard not the 
5 


08 AGNES ; OE, 

voice of the servant till her name was for the second time 
repeated. 

“ Miss Agnes,” she started up ; “it is the hour you told 
me to remind you of going to the chapel !” 

She hastily arose, slipped the manuscript into the drawer 
of her desk, and walked into her chamber. She had 
already assumed her cloak and bonnet, and was taking up 
a richly bound prayer-book, when the remembrance of the 
interview with her mother that morning flashed upon her. 
No soft, relenting light beamed from her eyes ; no feeling 
of compunction filled her heart. “How ridiculous,” she 
angrily exclaimed, “ some people can make themselves ! I 
accept Mark Clement as an adopted brother, and his sister 
a menial in the house ? No, never !” 

What feelings to fill her heart, and she on the eve of 
approaching the Penitential Sacrament! Was she comply- 
ing with the conditions by which its sanctifying graces 
might flow into her soul and make it pure and white, ready 
to receive her Saviour on the coming morrow ? Instead 
of the humility which should adorn a Christian, the fol- 
lower of Him who declared, that, unless we become as little 
children in meekness and lowliness of spirit, we could not 
enter into the kingdom of heaven, she was cherishing the 
darkest feelings of pride — that passion so hateful to God. 
She paused, and took off her gloves ; never before, of a 
Christmas Eve, since childhood, had she failed to approach 
the Sacrament of Penance, and should she omit it now ? 
She sat down, and again she thought of Arthur, Rosa, and 
Mary. Why were they called away, leaving her childhood 
lonely and sad? Why did she not go to sleep with them? 
Bowing her head upon her hand, the hot tears rolled over 
her cheeks. The Iktle clock in her room struck the hour 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITV. 


99 


of four ; again she started up ; she felt, in her present state 
of mind, she could not make the necessary preparations for 
confession ; but then she wanted to go out, to get away 
from cold, bitter thoughts. She was in that sullen mood, 
that she did not feel like speaking to any one, or being spoken 
to, an(J where could she so well avoid this annoyance as in 
the church? Yes, sh« would go, 'and perhaps the very 
sanctity of the place would soothe and quiet her troubled 
feelings. She arose, carefully washed the traces of teal's 
from her face, and left the chamber ; as she entered her 
room, her eyes met the sad countenance of the Mater 
Dolorosa ; hastily turning her head, she walked into the 
passage, and descended the wide stairs. Once in the street, 
she closely drew the veil over her face and hurried to the 
church. Entering the basement of St. Mary’s, she found 
a number who had already approached the peace-giving 
sacrament, gathered round the altar, while a number more 
were kneeling near the confessionals. Almost unconscious 
of what she did, she moved on to one of them — it was 
Father Joseph’s — and knelt with the other penitents. She 
opened her prayer-book and turned to the prayers before 
confession; a tear fell on the open page before her, and a 
feeling of compunction began to well iifrin her heart. 

One after another went into the confessional ; there were 
only two or three before her when the door opened, and 
she heard a man’s step approaching her ; she glanced up 
and met the eyes of lier father bent gratefully, thankfully 
upon her ; at the same time a sob sounded near, and the 
slight form of a female, dressed in deepest mourning, kneel- 
ing beside her, trembled violently. “ Ah ! she too is 
ti-oubled,” she thought, and a fellow-feeling caused her to 
turn her head ; she started back and the prayer-book fell 


100 


AGNES ; OEj 


from her hand. It was Martha Clement, her family’s seam- 
stress, and little Mark’s sister. The cold, bitter feelings 
rushed back to her heart, and an iron firmness settled round 
her mouth. It was now her turn to enter the confessional 
but she could not go in ; several moments passed, and 
Father Joseph, thinking there were no more penitents, 
raised the heavy curtain and caihe out. Mr. Hilton 
immediately stepped up to him : “ Father, there are others 
still to go.” ‘He cast an imploring glance on Agnes, but 
with fixed stony features she arose, picked up her prayer- 
book, and walked out of the church. Arrived home, she 
at once retired to her room, laid aside her things, and, 
taking a seat before the grate, gave herself up to cold resent- 
ful thoughts. Leaving her, we turn to Becky Starr, at her 
uncle’s, in the country. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


101 


CHAPTER VII. 

Mr. Graham’s residence was situated in a fine agricultural 
part of the country. The numerous out-buildings, well- 
kept fences, and general surroundings betokened it the home 
of an industrious and enterprising farmer. It was Christ- 
mas Eve, and, gathered together in the sitting-room, the 
family were listening to Becky Starr, in* a clear, well-modula- 
ted voice, reading aloud a chapter from St. Bonaventure’s 
“ Life of Christ.” It was a scene a Christian artist might love 
to convey to canvas — Becky, with her grave, thoughtful 
face, sitting at the table reading by the shaded lamp ; Mr. 
Graham, with deep devotion in his countenance, leaning 
forward, in the attitude of an attentive listener ; Mrs. Graham 
looking on, her calm mild eyes full of love and gratitude ; 
Jane, a girl of fifteen or sixteen, sitting just back of her 
mother, listening with wrapt attention ; and George and 
Henry, the one ten, the other eight, on low stools at her 
feet, turning to Becky, and hearing, with wonder depicted 
on their childish faces, of God’s great love to man. As 
Becky concluded the chapter, and reverently closed the 
volume, the door opened and an aged couple entered. Mr. 
Graham rose. 

“ Father, it is very cold ; let me draw these arm-chairs up 
to the fire for you and mother ; and, Becky, if you please, 
remove the shade from the lamp. Father thinks the room 
looks gloomy with it on.” 


102 


AGNES ; OE, 


“Yes, Walter, it looks gloomy — gloomy, like an old 
man’s heart — ^half lighted with life, half shrouded with 
death.” 

He sank into the softly cushioned chair, and Mr. Graham 
seated himself beside him. Although lather and son, one 
could not but be struck with the strong resemblance 
between them ; making room for the decrepitness of age, 
Mr. Graham’s features were exactly like his father’s, the 
same bold, prominent brow and dark gray eyes, the same 
thin nostrils and firm-set mouth. 

“'Walter,” said his father, after gazing for some time at a 
picture in an old-fashioned frame over the mantelpiece, 
“this is Christmas Eve, and to-morrow is a great day in 
your Church ?” 

“ Yes, father, a great day ; and to all who believe iri the 
Saviour it should be equally great — by them should be 
equally revered.” 

“ And yet,” continued the old man, “ there are many 
calling themselves Christians — at least, they would be 
scandalized should you call them pagan, heathen, or infidel — 
who look upon Christmas as a day set aside for worldly 
enjoyments and selfish gratification. To them, Christmas 
dark and stormy is no Christmas at all ; it must be bright 
and sunny for the thoughtless seekers of pleasure.” And then, 
in that tone of bitterness in which he ^v’as wont to speak 
when a deeper current of thought was stirred, he added : 
“ But did man come into the world to flutter for a few 
days, like the butterfly, in the sun of enjoyment, and then 
sink into the grave, leaving room for others ? Was his life 
to have no other purpose ? No ; they who thus believe, 
thus act, miserably deceive themselves.” 

“ Grandfather,” said Becky, who had by this time seated 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 103 

herself on one of tlie boy’s stools at his feet, “ shall I tell 
you what our Church teaches on this subject ?” 

The countenance of her aunt and uncle looked troubled ; 
the stern old man had never allowed the Catholic doctrine 
to be broached in his presence, and now they dreaded to 
see his passionate nature roused, but, looking down on 
Becky, he replied : 

“ Speak, child ; tell me what it teaches !” 

“ That man, grandfather, came into the world to pre- 
pare for heaven, and it depends on himself whether he gain 
it or not ; that ‘ here he has no lasting city here ‘ in fear 
and trembling he must work out his salvation here ‘ lay 
up those treasures which the moth cannot consume, nor the 
violent bear away.’ ” 

“ Becky,” said grandfather, laying his hand on her head, 
“ it rather seems that preparing for the present and future 
wants of the body takes up his whole attention ; he works, 
contrives, and is ever busy for the poor body, which must 
soon become the food of worms — but the soul, what does 
he do for that ? To see him bustling about, ever eager and 
greedy for the good things of earth, it would seem, con- 
trary to the- Apostle’s word, that here is really his abiding 
place, here his lasting city. He sees his friends, com- 
panions, associates, daily stricken down, and yet he urges 
on heedless of the warning — forgetful that he, too, must 
die.” 

Grandfather ceased, and black, heavy clouds gathered on 
his brow. Becky spoke not ; she saw he was plunged deep 
in thought, and wished not to be disturbed. She sat watch- 
ing her grandmother’s fingers patiently toiling the round of 
a stocking ; round after round she completed ; at last, acci- 
dentally pulling out a needle, she handed the knitting to 


104 


AGNES; OR, 


Becky : “ Here, child,” she said, “ will you pick up these 
stitches ? ray eyes are dimraer than they once were.” 

“ But, mother,” exclaimed grandfather, rousing himself 
from his revery, “ while the eyes of the body have grown 
dim, the eyes of the soul have been opened.” 

Mr. Graham started ; had he heard his father’s words 
aright ? Was the prayer of years about to be answered ? 
Were his parents, after all their wanderings, to be gathered 
into the true fold ? , 

As Becky handed back the stocking, her questioning 
eyes were raised to her grandfather. 

“You all go to church to-morrow?” he said, turning to 
his son. 

“Y"es, father, all but Fanny; she will remain at home to 
keep you and mother company — that is, if you choose to 
remain at home.” 

“ Where else should I remain?” he asked, the old stern- 
ness coming back. 

“Grandfather, would you like to hear your favorite 
piece ?” 

“ Yes, Becky, yes,” he replied, in a more softened voice. 
Jane handed her the guitar, and, running her slender fin- 
gers over the strings, in a singularly clear and musical voice 
she sang “ The Midnight Messenger.” As she finished, 
he hastily rose and took the lamp from the mantelpiece. 

“ Father, are you going so soon ?” 

“Yes, Walter. I came in here to get away from heavy 
thought, but it follows me, and I must go back to my 
room. I can’t rest ; I must work while it is day, for the 
night cometh when no man can work.” 

He had now reached the door, and, rolling up her knit- 
ting, grandmother prepared to follow. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


105 


“ Mother ” said Mrs. Graham, kindly, « you, at least, 
will stay awhile with us ?” 

“ No, Fanny ; I, too, with father, have work to do.” Then, 
while a moisture gathered in her eyes, she added : “ We 
go, children, to our room to read, study, and reflect !” 

“ And may God be with you in your labors I” fervently 
responded Mrs. Graham. 

A few moments after their departure, Mr. Graham ob- 
served : 

Father and mother seem greatly troubled in mind.” 

“Yes, Walter; and we must redouble our prayers for 
them. I have noticed a change coming over them for 
some time past.” 

“ I think I have too. They keep very close in their 
room, and appear abstracted when out. I have frequently 
asked father a question, when he has looked at me with so 
vacant an intensity of gaze that I know he did not see me, 
much less hear me, and, Fanny, my heart has been greatly 
lifted up ; I remember, in my time of trouble, before the 
light dawned, it was the same with me.” 

“ Yesterday, Walter, the Thirty-day prayer was finished, 
and to-night we will again commence it.” 

“ W^e will, Fanny ; and now tell me, have you the ^oy’s 
clothes all in readiness, so that we can start early ?” 

“ Yes, they are on chairs by their bed. What time will 
you want breakfast ?” 

“ As for Jane, Becky, and myself, we will be fasting, and 
I don’t think you need get it any earlier than usual for tlie 
boys. I mentioned their clothes, because I want to start 
immediately after the meal. Father Williams will only be a 
short time in the confessional, so we must be there early.” 

“ Does he go to Ilartville to-morrow ?” 


106 


AGNES ; OE. 


‘‘Yes, immediately after Mass. And there again he 
hears confessions, and says Mass.” 

“ I am sorry Patrick went home to-day, you will have 
so many chores to do in the morning.” 

“ Oh no, Fanny, the poor fellow would feel bad enough 
to he away from his friends on Christmas. All it will be, 
I will have to get up a little earlier myself.” 

“ What time will he be back ?” 

“Not till after New Year’s ; he works hard all the year, and 
I thought, at the least, he ought to have a Aveek’s holiday.” 

“ Jane,” said her mother, “ won’t you wake up the boys ; 
it’s most time for prayers T' 

The boys. were roused, and, as the clock struck nine, 
Jane handed the prayer-book to her father, and they all 
knelt to evening prayers. 

At dawn the next day, Becky, already -dressed for her 
morning ride, was descending the stairs, when the door of 
her grandfather’s room opened, and he appeared, beckon- 
ing to her. A softened expression rested on his venerable 
features. Taking his hand gently in hers, in an earnest 
voice, she exclaimed : 

“ Grandfather, may this be a happy Christmas to you !” 

“ May it be the same to you, child ! And now go tell 
your aunt she need not stay at home for us.” 

“Do you wish me to stay in her place ?” she asked, 
allowing no disappointment to cloud her face. 

“No, child; but we — mother and I — are going too. 
Off, off, no time for questions !” he hastily added, seeing 
her look of intense astonishment. 

She raised his hand, pressed it to her lips, and hurried 
to the sitting-room. The family were ready to start ; her 
aunt was folding a comforter round Henry’s neck. ' 


yiEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


107 


“Aunt,” she said, “ you have not broken your fast yet?” 

“No, Becky, I have not. While George and Henry 
were eating, I was waiting on mother and father ; they 
took breakfast in their room.” 

“ I am glad to hear you are fasting, for dear grandfather 
and grandmother are going too. They just bade me tell * 
you so.” 

“Going too! Father and mother going!” exclaimed 
Mr. and Mrs. Graham in the same breath. 

“ Yes, aunt and uncle ; I saw grandfather had on his 
coat and overcoat, but I did not think of this. Ob, it is 
unexpected, unexpected !” 

“It is a joyful surprise for us all, Becky,” replied her 
aunt ; then turning to her husband, with tears in her eyes, 
she said : “ Walter, you see my words are coming true !” 

“Yes, Fanny, yes.” He brushed his hand over his 
brow, and tried to say more, but his heart was too full. 
Surely a great change had come over his parents. How 
inveterate had been their hatred to the Catholic religion ! 
How bitter tbeir feelings to their children for embracing 
it! And now, unsolicited, they were going to attend a 
Catholic place of worship ! To-day they would be present 
as listening strangers — another Christmas, might they not 
be present as enrolled members of the One True Church ? 

“ Walter,” said Mrs. Graham, “ I shall have to detain 
you awhile, to get ready myself.” She left the room, and, 
almost immediately after, grandfather and grandm -tber 
entered. Mr. Graham rose, grasped their hands, but he 
did not speak. 

“ This is a surprise to you, Walter,” said grandfather, 
sinking into the chair which Becky had wheeled up for 
him. 


108 


AGNES ; OE, 


“ It is, father ; from your words last night, I did not ex- 
pect it.” 

“ I spoke what I then thought. But, Walter, we know 
not to-day what the morrow may bring forth !” 

“ True, father ; but we know that the mercy of the Lord 
endureth forever !” 

“ It does, Walter, it does ! This assurance has been the 
pillar of cloud by day, and the pillar of light by night, that 
has. sustained and guided me thus far, in a weary, weary 
search.” 

■“ And, father, as God brought his children out of the 
land of Egypt, so now he will bring you out of all your 
troubles.” 

“I believe it, Walter; although all around me is a blank 
wilderness, I believe it.” His voice trembled, and tears 
hung on his silver lashes. 

Mrs. Graham made her appearance, and, taking some 
warm blocks from under the stove, Mr. Graham led the 
way to the sleigh. 

The seats being wide, Becky found ample room on the 
same one with her grandparents. All in, with the warm 
blocks under their feet, and furs wrapped snugly around 
them, Mr. Graham slackened the reins. 

It was a cold, freezing morning, but the snow-clad fields 
sparkled and shone, till all Golconda’s glittering w^ealth 
seemed a mere mockery to them ; the smoke from every 
chimney ascended in graceful wreaths, as if each house 
was an altar on which was burning grateful incense ; and 
the air so clear and still, that Becky leaned forward, almost 
persuaded she could hear the angel band singing anthems 
to the new-born King. Soon the village of Arden appeared 
in sight ; the modest spire of St. Mary’s Church loomed 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


109 


up like a beacon light ; already many, dressed in the bumble 
garb of poverty, were hastening on before them ; now they 
had passed through the gate, and now were entering the 
church as they drove up. 

With tender care, Mr. Graham assisted his aged parents 
from the sleigh and helped them up the slippery path to 
the church door ; by this time all had alighted, and hasten- 
ing her to grandfather’s side, Becky noticed a tear standing 
on his withered cheek. 

“The snow, Becky, is dazzling, very dazzling,” he said, 
turning and quickly brushing it off. With beaming eyes 
she looked up into his face, and silently pressed his hand. 

Mr. Grahnm went to secure his horses, and the rest of the 
family walked on to their pew. Father Williams occupied 
the confessional, and after a short but fervent preparation, 
Jane, Becky, and Mr. and Mrs. Graham approached the 
peace-giving sacrament. 

At length, confessions over, Mass commenced. From 
her childhood, Becky Starr had been accustomed to attend 
the fine churches of the city; but now, away from all out- 
ward grandeur, in tliat poor little chapel, with only the 
murmur of t?ie priest’s voice in her ears, she never felt so 
near Bethlehem in all her life. The reading of the evening 
before came up; she thought of the vast multitude that, 
obedient to the call of Augustus, thronged Bethlehem, to 
have their names enrolled — of the tender Virgin and vener- 
able Joseph, weary with their long journey, seeking in the 
crowded city for some resting-place — of their being refused 
admittance even at the humblest lodging, and then, all weak 
and trembling, repairing to a poor stable, rejoiced to find, at 
last, a shelter from the sleeting rain and midnight frost. 
And there, away from the comforts and conveniences of life, 


110 


AGNES ; OE, 


the Saviour of the world was born ! Ah ! was not the 
poverty of his birtli intended as a great lesson — to the rich, 
that, in their homes of ease and comfort, bearing in mind the 
cold little stable of Bethlehem, they should not harden 
their hearts to the -wants of the suffering poor — and to the 
poor that they should not murmur and. repine under their 
lot, remembering their blessed Saviour, while on earth, 
knowing how much they are scorned and conteramed by ' 
the proud, chose them as brothers, and walked with them 
the humble path of poverty. 

At the time of the Communion, Becky walked up with 
the other communicants to the railing ; with all fervor and 
humility she repeated the Confiteor, then quickly followed 
the Absolution, Agnus Dei, the Domine non sum dignus, 
and the blessed Jesus, whom in spirit she had that morn- 
ing adored with the shepherds, descended into her heart 
to replenish it with his all-absorbing grace. Tears washed 
over her cheeks ; quietly wiping them away, she returned 
to her seat and remained in a state of ecstatic love and 
adoration till the sound of many feet aroused her ; looking 
up, she saw the congregation crowding to the altar with 
their Christmas offering. Immediately the words of the 
sacred penman, speaking of the wise men, occurred to her : 
“And going into the house they found the child, with 
Mary, his mother, and falling down they adored him ; and 
opening their treasures, they offered to him gifts, gold, 
frankincense, and myrrh.” 

Mass concluded, after some time spent in grateful medi- 
tation, the family left the church. While waiting for Mr. 
Graham to bring round the sleigh, several gathered around 
them, and the warm congratulations of the season passed 
from lip to lip. Grandfather and grandmother retired 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


Ill 


apart from the rest, and Becky, seeing them look sad and 
lonely, hastened to them. 

“ Grandfather,” she said, “ how happy they are on this 
blessed mornino;!” 

o « 

“Yes, child; but* their words weary me.” He sighed 
and laid his hand heavily on her shoulder. 

“ How did you like the ceremonies ?” she asked. 

“ I can hardly tell you, child ; they seem strange*to me.” 

“But the few’ remarks Father Williams made ?” 

“ They were appropriate. I liked them well — there : 
now do not trouble me with any more questions.” He 
bowed his head, and the thin white locks falling over his 
face hid to all but Becky’s eyes the stem, sad look of 
uncomplaining sorrow. 

Mr. Graham drove up. “Father and mother,” he said, 
“ you must be tired standing so long ! The blocks w’ere 
quite cold, and I stayed to have them warmed ; let me help 
you in first.” Carefully he guided their feeble steps, and 
gently lifted them in. 

Becky again seated herself between them, and George 
and Henry, feeling now’ their tongues might with propriety 
be loosened, entertained them all the way home with inno- 
cent and childish prattle. 

After dinner, while making vast discoveries, and showing 
to Jane and Becky all the fine toys the good Santa Claus 
had sent them, Becky was summoned to her grandparents’ 
room. 

“ There, child,” said grandfather, pointing to an ottoman, 
“ get that ; we w’ant you to stay with us.” He arose, stirred 
up the fire, and, res^iming his seat, said : 

“ Becky, child, your grandmother and I have read much 
of late, and, instead of finding the miserable doubts which 


112 


AGITES; OE, 


urged us to it quieted and dispelled, they have resolved 
themselves into certainties. In our old age we find our- 
selves without a faith, without a visible guide.” Becky 
started. 

“ Does it shock, surprise you, child ?” 

“ Grandfather, it does not surprise me ; I have known it 
for some time.” 

“ Kflown it, child ! how ? I thought mother and I eficctu- 
ally concealed it from all. Certainly we have not spoken 
of it. 

“ It was not from any thing you have said, grandfather ; 
but from the books you have been reading, and your 
troubled looks, that I knew it.” 

Grandfather smiled : “ Becky, child, we have been read- 
ing of late only the Scriptures and authentic history,” 

“ But, grandfather, there was a time when you had others 
besides them !” 

“ You are right, child, there was ; mother and I read them, 
but their subtle sophistry did not satisfy us ; we saw how 
utterly incompatible with man’s happiness was their 
specious reasoning ; how soon, if they should ever gain the 
ascendency, they would destroy the harmony of order, and 
plunge the world into an irretrievable chaos. Every one 
would be for setting himself up as a philosopher ; might 
would govern right ; and where freedom was promised to 
man, the most terrible slavery would be found. Never, 
Becky, was such a tyrant as this boasted reason would 
prove. Innumerable sects would arise, the name of the living 
God would be swept from the earth, and again would the 
altars of Moloch stream with the blood of his victims.” 

“ And to save man from all this, grandfather, you have 
come to the belief that God left to him a revealed faith ?” 


view’s of catholicity. 


113 


“ I have, child. He created man, and placed him in a 
terrestrial garden filled with every thing that could delight 
the senses. There he might have remained, innocent and 
happy f one restraint, and one only, was placed upon him : 
he was commanded not to eat of the fruit of a certain tree ; 
he -disobeyed, he transgressed, and in his transgression 
showed the rebelliousness of liis heart. He was driven out 
from his delightful home ; the penalty of death was pro- 
nounced upon him and all his posterity ; but the mercy of 
God would not see him utterly destroyed; a Saviour was 
promised, whose blood should atone for his sin. To Abra- 
ham, Isaac, and Jacob was this promise afterwards renew- 
ed ; the prophets were enlightened as to the time of his 
coming; they so exactly foretold all the circumstances 
attending his birth, life, preachings, miracles, and death, 
that, in Jesus of Nazareth, we cannot but see the long 
promised, the long expected Messiah come. We see, too, 
from his own words, from the writings of his apostles, that 
before his mission was fully accomplished, he established 
a church wherein a pure and undefiled faith might be 
deposited for man. This far, child, have we got; and now, 
with the various churches founding their belief on Chris- 
tianity, each pretending to be the repository of that pre- 
cious faith, how are we to know which is the right, which 
the spiurious one ?” 

“ By the marks, grandfather, which he left to distin- 
guish it from all others.” 

“ Marks, child ! Marks !” He bent eagerly forward and 
the cloud seemed lifting from his brow. 

“Yes, grandfather; when Christ established his Church 
he knew that many would come in his name ; ‘ false pro- 
phets in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly ravenous wolves,’ 


114 


AGNES ; OR, 


and therefore he set marks upon it by which it might be 
easily known to all. Grandfather, these are the marks : 
the Church of Christ must be one, holy, catholic, mu! 
apostolic.” She paused, leaned her forehead on her hand, 
and remained for several moments buried in thought ; at. 
length she raised her head, and looked up into her grand- 
father’s face. 

“ Well, Becky,” he said ; “ now that you have gathered 
up the scattered threads of memory, will you tell us what 
you mean by saying the Church of Christ must be one ?” 

“ I mean, grandfather, it must be one by the union of its 
members in one faith, one communion. It stands to reason, 
if dissensions and contradictions about faith or worship 
were allowed to enter, it would be split into a thousand 
fragments and lost in a multiplicity of creeds ; but the 
Church of Christ is built upon a rock, and is to last forever ; 
hence it must be one, strong and unweakened, capable of 
resisting the ‘ rains, floods, and winds which beat against it.’ 
Christ says, ‘‘one fold, one shepherd,'' to express emphatically 
its indissoluble unity. W^e cannot reject one single article 
without rejecting the whole ; we must be either for it, or 
against it, for ‘ whosoever shall keep the whole law, and 
yet ofifend in one point, is guilty of all.’ 

‘ But, Becky,” said grandmother, laying her hand on her 
arm, “pause here a moment. The Church which is Christ’s 
must be one* Very well ; now tell which, among the exist- 
ing churches, has this boasted unity. Father and I have 
examined them well, and have failed to find it.” 

“ It is, grandmother, because you have not examined the 
Catholic Church. There, and there only, will you be able to 


* St, James, ii. 10. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


115 


find unity. Among others you find nothing but wrangling 
and discord. They are not to-day what they were yester- 
day, and to-morrow they will not be what they are to- 
day. Constantly changing — constantly blown about by 
every wind of doctrine,, what claim can they have to this 
first of essential marks. St. Paul points them out and 
bids us beware of them ; he says : ‘ I beseech you, brethren, 
to mark them who cause dissensions and offences contrary 
to the doctrine which you have learned ; and avoid them.’* 
And in still another place, he exhorts us to* be ‘ careful to 
keep the unity of the spirit in the bond of peace. One 
body, and one spirit ; as you are called in one hope of your 
vocation. One Lord, one faith, one baptism. ’f The Catho- 
lic Church alone has preserved this unity ; she is the same 
throughout the world, the same creed, the same worship. 
Even the sacrifice of her altar is everywhere offered up in 
the one language, the same used in all her sacred offices 
throughout all the western parts of the world from the 
apostles’ days. And, grandfather and grandmother, be- 
hold in this one point before us how the' wisdom of God 
guides his Church ! The common or vulgar languages are 
forever changing, and, in order to preserve her from losing 
in these changes a tittle of her unity, one language was 
chosen for all her ritual. Here her unity of faith, and 
unity of worship ai’e both secured. A Catholic finds him- 
self in a strange country ; he knows nothing of the lan- 
guage spoken around him, but there is a Catholic Church ; 
he sees the same sacrifice of the altar offered up in the same 
language in which he has always been accustomed to hear 

* Romans, xvi. 17. 

t Ephesians, iv. 1, 2, 3. “Challoner’s Catholic Christian Instruc- 
ted,” p. IIG. 


116 


AGNES ; OR, 


it. There are the seven sacraments, prayers for the dead, 
invocations of the saints, believing the same supremacy, da- 
ting back that supremacy, through long ages, to St. Peter, the 
rock on which the Church was built. He is no longer a 
stranger ; he is at home with the members, in the union of 
one faith, one communion. Has any other than the Catho- 
lic Church unity like this ?” 

Grandfather’s and grandmother’s eyes were fixed upon 
tlie carpet, they heeded not her question ; minute after 
minute passed by, but they still mused on. At length, rais- 
ing his head, grandfather exclaimed : 

“The second mark, child! Tell us about the second mark 
of Christ’s Church. I believe you said it was holiness.” 

“ I did, grandfather ; for it stands to reason the Church 
which the blessed Saviour founded, wherein the fruits of 
bis precious blood might be applied to the souls of men, 
could not be otherwise than holy. Christ himself declared 
‘the gate^ of hell should not prevail against it,’* that is, 
that no sill or wickedness should ever creep into it, and 
he promised to send another Paraclete, the Spirit of truth, 
that it might abide with it forever.f In Isaias we read : 
‘xVnd a path and a way shall be there, and it shall be called 
the holy way ; the unclean shall not pass over it ;’J and 
listen to St. Paul, speaking of it, he says : ‘ Christ loved the 
Church, and delivered himself up for it, that he might 
sanctify it, cleansing it by the laver of water in the word of 
life : that he might present it to himself a glorious church, 
not having spot or wrinkle, nor any siich thing ; but that it 
should be holy and without blemish. ’§ You see, grandfather, 
holiness is another indispensable mark of Christ’s Church.” 

* Matthew, xvi. 18. 1 Isaias, xxxv. 8. 

f John, xiv. 16. § Ephesians, v, 25, 26. 2*1. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


117 


“Yes, child, yes,” lie impatiently exclaimed, while the 
black clouds gathered ou his brow, “ it must ot’ necessity be 
holy, Christ could not be the founder of one that was 
not ; but tell me how you can claim holiness as belonging 
exclusively to the Catholic Church? Methinks, child, I 
have heard any thing but holiness ascribed to it !” 

“ But by whom, grandfather ? Its enemies. They , 
found its purity and holiness laid too great a restraint 
upon their passions ; they broke from it, and, ashamed to 
own to the world their unworthiness to be ranked among its 
members, they accused it of the very excesses of which they 
themselves were guilty. Look upon the lives of these pre- 
tended reformers ; not one of them but seem abandoned to, 
the most shameful crimes. Luther’s violence of temper 
burst forth on all occasions ; throughout his writings is dis- 
played the same spirit of pride, hatred, and intolerance ; he 
tried to make out God the author of sin, by denying free 
will to man ; he boasted of having, with impunity, broken 
the most solemn vows. That peace which the world can 
neither give nor take away was not granted to his councils ; 
he and his disciples were ever wrangling, disputing, and 
contradicting. Having thrown off the restraint of the 
Church, one would not submit to the opinion of another, 
hence followed bitter contentions, and suddenly a multitude 
of new religions were spawned upon the world. To believe 
each one’s account of the other, never was there so quar- 
relsome, furious, and scandalous a set. Vv' hat vile epithets, 
what odious cgmparisons, they dealt out to all who in the 
least dared to disagree with them! AiVhat seditions they 
stirred up I What confusion and tumult followed in their 
wake 1 And yet these were the pretended reformers of 
Christ’s Holy Church ! It would be impossible for me. 


118 


AGNES ; OE, 


grandfather, to tell you all their inconsistencies, and 
wanderings • after they began the business of reforming : 
I will, therefore, refer you to Bossuet’s ‘ Variations,’ there 
you will find them fully treated. And now, leaving them 
and their slanders against the Church which God has given 
his angels charge over, I will just glance at the boasted 
Reformation in England, and see what kind of men set 
about the same work there. Were they holy. God-fearing 
persons, who labored under the belief that ep^ had crept 
into the Church, and it was their pious duty to correct 
them? Were their tender consciences pained at the want 
of piety among the people ? Did they strive to arouse 
them from their lethargy, and inspire anew in their hearts 
the love and fear of God ? Grandfather, you and grand- 
mother have been reading history, authentic history, you 
tell me, and what does it say ?” 

Grandfather’s hands were crossed upon his cane, and his 
head bowed down upon them. He groaned aloud, no other 
reply did he make, and Becky went on : 

“ Grandfather,” she laid her hand upon his knee, and her 
voice took the tone of deep feeling, “ I know what you 
would say ; I, too, have read history, and instead of all this, 
instead of being holy. God-fearing men, they were devoid 
of every sentiment of piety and humanity, and it was their 
morals, not the Church, which so terribly needed reforming. 
They slandered it ; to be sure they did ; but in the midst 
of all their slanders and persecution its purity and holiness 
shone forth more gloriously than ever. Like Luther, in 
the case of the Landgrave of Hesse, it might have con- 
sented to Henry the Eighth having two wives at one time, 
but it would not sanction so great a wickedness ; and the 
firmness of its Pontiff, in maintaining its integrity, proves 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


11 & 


to the world that God had not forgotten his promise ; that 
the Spirit of Truth was still with it, guiding and directing 
it in all things.” 

Grandfather suddenly raised his head, and exclaimed : 
“ Strange, child, strange, that England should boast of 
having thrown off the spiritual authority of the Pope, 
when she threw it off for no other reason than because he 
would not sanction so abominable a crime ! And strange, 
too, that, having broken off from him, she should bow to 
the supremacy of one, a monster in human nature, for, 
from that time, Henry became -the head of England’s 
Church !” 

“Yes, father, I recollect, and a strange head, a strange 
reformer, he must have been !” 

“ Grandfather and grandmother, it is no more than might 
b^ expected. Hardening her heart, she was given over to 
a reprobate sense ; and, while we may exclaim : What 
blindness! what infatuation 1 we cannot but see in it the 
justice of Almighty God. She heaped the vilest slanders 
on his Church, and it is but fitting the world should know 
why she separated from its communion, and to whom she 
owed the existence of her own.” 

Grandfather put more wood on the fire, and, moving to 
one side of the fireplace, leaned his elbow on the mantel- 
piece and his head on his open palm. The clock near him 
ticked loud, with almost an intruding noise. 

“ Mother !” he exclaimed, after awhile listening to it ; 
“how the babbling minutes fiy ! We linger — they heed it 
not — willing or unwilling, they drag us with them down the 
path of life 1” 

“ And yet, grandfather, these minutes are laden with the 
choicest gifts to man.” 


120 


AGlfES; OE, 


“ Becky, child, that may be easy for the young to believe, 
when to them every change has upon it the morning fresh- 
ness of life ; but not so to the old ; morning and noon are 
past, and only the night of the grave is before them.” 

“ To the aged worldling, he to whom this world is all, 
grandfather, it may be so ; but not to the aged Christian. 
To him more joyous, more glorious, is the coming change. 
The grave he has not looked upon as the end, but as the 
beginning of his life ; beyond it is his paradise of delights, 
where no serpent can come to tempt and lure him into 
evil. In triumph he exclaims : ‘ O Grave ! where is thy 
victory ? O Death ! where is thy sting f ” 

Grandfather moved on to his seat, and laid his hand 
gently on her head. 

“ Dear child,” he said, “ the world has never been to 
your grandmother and I our all, and yet how dark the 
grave appears to us!” There was an indescribable sadness 
in his voice, which brought tears to Becky’s eyes. 

“ Grandfather,” she replied, pressing her hands together, 
“ it is because you have no sure faith to light you to it.” 

“ No, child ; no. For the last few months our hearts have 
been racked and torn ; sorrows have multiplied upon us, 
and darkness is around us.” He covered his face with his, 
hands, and Becky knew by the convulsive breathing that 
her grandfather wept. In a moment gTandmother was at 
his side. She had ever been his faithful partner, smooth- 
ing the rugged paths before him, and where his manly 
strength and courage failed, with her womanly patience 
and fortitude, soothing ajid helping him on. 

■ “ Zachary,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, 
‘‘remember the words Walter spoke to you this morning. 

The mercy of the Lord endureth forever.’ It is dark be- 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


121 


fora us now, but it is only the darkness just before day, I 
can already see a bright ray streaking the horizon !” 

The passionate burst of grief was over, raising his headj 
in a calm, subdued voice, he replied : “ Rebecca, the preju- 
dices of years must be laid aside, and what we were taught 
to hate we ftiust learn to love.” 

“ So be it, Zachary, if light and peace come with it !” 

“ Becky,” said grandfather, suddenly turning to her ; 
‘ • you believe your Church to be infallible ?” 

“ I do, grandfather; I would have to doubt the words of 
Christ himself to doubt its everlasting purity and holiness. 
He said it would never err or go astray, and in believing 
his word I believe in its perfect infallibility. In it, grand- 
father, you will find those channels through which the 
grace of God may flow into our souls — there is the Holy 
Sacrifice of the Mass daily ofiered up on its altars — seven 
sacraments — days set aside for fasting and prayer — lives of 
members eminent for their piety — in other words, lives of 
its saints, placed before us, that, ^ while asking their prayers, 
we may make their virtues our own — every thing in it 
tends to excite a holy emulation in doing good — tends to a 
carrying out of those two great commandments Christ 
gave — love to God and man.” 

“ Sacrifice of the Mass daily offered up — seven sacra- 
ments — days set aside for fasting and prayer — asking the 
saints to pray for us !” said grandmother, in a musing tone. 

“ Mother !” exclaimed grandfather, “ we will talk to 
Becky about all them another day; but, child, tell us now 
about the third mark.” 

“ Grandfather, the third mark of Christ’s Church is its 
universality. It must extend to all nations : ‘ Go ye into 
the whole world, and preach the Gospel to every crea- 
G 


122 


AGNES ; OR, 


ture.’^ It was not, like the Jewish religion, to be confined 
to one spot ; the earth was to be its inheritance. ‘ All the 
ends of the earth shall remember, and shall be converted 
to the Lord : and all the kindreds of the Gentiles shall 
adore in thy sight. For the kingdom is the^ Lord’s, and 
he shall have dominion ov'er the nations.’! Acts we 

see the establishment of the infant church, and, following 
its history, in course of time, we see the disciples removed 
from their field of labor, others succeeding them, and the 
work still going on. Persecutions fall harmless upon it, 
and nations gather themselves under its sheltering roof. 
Heresies spring up, each claiming to be the Church of 
Christ ; and a name is given it which it shall carry down to 
all succeeding generations. They strive to wrest this name 
from it and assume it themselves ; but in vain, they can- 
not — it belongs not to them. Grandfather and grand- 
mother, what is this name? It is Catholic. And why 
could they not assume it ? Because it was to point out the 
one Church, the great Church, the universal Church ; and 
what claim had they to being One, Great, or Universal ? 
They, torn with dissensions, limited to a few members^ and 
confined to remote corners ! As to the modern heresies, 
many of them have in like manner claimed it, but with no 
better success. Like the early ones, they are known by 
the names of their founders, or nations among which they 
first appeared, or some novelty belonging to them, as Lu- 
therans, Calvinists, Church of England, Kirk of Scotland, 
Baptists, Methodists, etc. The nicknames, Romanist and 
Papist, which they in their spleen have cast upon it, show 
up their malice and weakness, and the greater claim it has 


* Mark, xvi. 15. 


f Psalm xi. 28, 29. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


123 


to it; for, in spite of all, Catholic it came down to us, 
Catholic it still is, and Catholic it shall be, when they, like 
the early heresies, have passed away. Grandfather and 
grandmother, jt would weary you, 1 fear, should I, in- speak- 
ing of' its universality of place, enumerate a]l the countries 
over which it is spread, for in those countries in which it is 
not the established church, as in England, Scotland, Hol- 
land, and the Protestant parts of Germany, it has numerous, 
very numerous followers, imd the same may be said of it 
throughout the world. And not only in place is it Catholic 
or universal, but in time. Turn to any history you please, 
and however much the historian, in his prejudice, may 
wish, to cloak it, you cannot but see it is the Church of the 
apostles’ days. The very heresies which have in succeed- 
ing ages sprung up incontestably prove this. One denied 
the trinity, another the resurrection, another baptism, 
another transubstantiation, or the change of the bread and 
wine into the body and blood of Christ, another the pon- 
tifical authorit}", and so of each of its tenets, and in combat- 
ing and refuting these errors and maintaining the purity 
of its faith, it proves it was the same in doctrine, in liturgy, 
and in government, it is to-day. It had, as I observed, 
when speaking of its unity, the same sacrifice of the altar, 
the same sacraments, the same supremacy, and dating back 
that supremacy to Peter, the rock on which the Church 
was built, against which the powers of hell have iiQjJcr pre- 
vailed, and never can prevail.” 

With eyes bent earnestly upon her, grandfather and grand- 
mother had listened to her words, but now grandfather spoke : 

“ Child, you are right. The Church which is Christ’s 
must be universal in time as well as in place. A church 
which cannot trace itself back to the apostles’ days, can- 


124 


AGITES ; OEj 


not be the church which Christ founded and his apostles 
preached.” 

“ No, grandfather, certainly not ; and this now brings 
me to the last of the four marks by which Cjirist’s Church 
may be known — its apostolicity. It must be able, through 
a succession of bishops, to trace itself back to Peter, the 
first bishop. None of the Protestant sects being heard of 
till the sixteenth century, can they do this ? Can they show 
an uninterrupted succession of pastors? No, grandfather; 
they cannot. The slightest knowledge of history would at 
once expose any pretensions they might make.” 

“ But, Becky,” said grandfather, “ does not the Church of 
England, or Episcopal Church, claim an apostolic succession?” 

“She does, grandfather; but through what channel? 
Through the channel of the Catholic Church. For she 
knows, the world knows, it is a fact as palpable as the noon- 
day sun, that the Catholic religion was the first Christian 
religion, the religion the apostles labored to extend, and 
which, through the most terrible persecution, and in spite 
of the most violent opposition, converted the Pagan world, 
and carried the light of the Gospel to the barbarous nations 
around.” 

“ But, child,” asked grandfather, “ did it not afterwards 
fall into the grossest idolatry ?” 

“ No, grandfather ; that is only one of the many slanders 
its enemies have cast upon it.” 

Grandfather looked sharply at Becky, while a stern look 
of incredulity settled on his countenance. 

“Father,” said grandmother, observing his changed ex- 
pression, “ we must not be too ready to believe all alleged 
against it. Doubtless, when Becky comes to tell lis of its 
sacrifice sacraments, and all those things she has promised 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


125 


to tell us about, sbe will be able to clear up these accusa- 
tions.” 

“ Grandfather and grandmother, in my poor way I could 
easily do it, but you must not depend entirely on my word. 
I will bring you Milner’s ‘ End of Religious Controversy,’ 
and there, from the writings of one of its most learned di- 
vines, you will see all the slanders against it ably refuted, 
refuted, too, in a style you cannot but admire for its calm,' 
reasonable, and sensible tone ; no false rhetoric, no empty 
declamation will you find in it ; only the strong, forcible 
language of truth.” 

“ Child, you will bring us the book this evening ?” 

“ I will, grandfather.” 

“ And now, Becky,” said grandmother, “ speaking of the 
Church of England laying a claim to apostolicity through 
the Catholic Church, tell us, does she, even in that way, prove 
her claim good ?” 

“ No, grandmother, she does not. Queen Elizabeth com- 
missioned the Catholic Bishops of Bath, Durham, LandafF, 
and Peterboro, to consecrate Matthew Parker, he being a 
Protestant, and they Catholics, of course they would not do 
it ; and for maintaining their rightful authority they w'ere 
persecuted, deprived of their sees, and Parker, it was said, 
was consecrated by one Barlow, who had himself never 
been consecrated, thus, notwithstanding all her voluminous 
writings, unable to prove Barlow’s consecration, her link is 
broken, and she has no more claim to an apostolic succes- 
sion than any of the other heresies. But not so with the 
Catholic Church ; through eighteen hundred years it can 
trace itself in a direct line back to Peter. In the first age, 
to Peter succeeded Linus; to Linus, Cletus; to Cletus, 
Clement : and the second age, to Clement, Anacletus ; to An- 


126 


AGNES ; OK, 


acletus, Evaristus ; to Evaristus, Alexander I. ; and, grand- 
father and grandmother, in the same manner, through all the 
centuries, I can descend to Pius IX., the present Pope or 
head bishop ; making in the aggregate, two hundred and 
fifty-six who have occupied the chair of Peter. Strong and 
unbroken, grandfather and grandmother, is the chain that 
binds the Catholic Church to the eternal rock on which it 
was founded.” 

The door opened, and Jane informed them that tea was 
awaiting, “ Becky, dear,” said grandmother, rising, “ you 
will not forget the book after supper?” 

“ No, grandmother, I certainly will not.” 

“ And, Becky,” said grandfather, taking the hand she 
lovingly extended to him, “ we will ponder over your words, 
and when all you have told us is well considered, we will, 
child, refer to those subjects you promised to treat of.” 

“ At any time, dear grandfather, at any time.” 

A glad, grateful look, passed between the two girls as 
they walked on with their grandparents to the tea-table. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


127 


CHAPTJER VIII. 

A FEW days after Christmas, Mr. Hilton’s carriage drove 
up before the widow Clement’s door. Little Mark was to 
be taken to his new home. He was already dressed in his 
bright plaid suit, and was standing by his mother’s knee 
listening to' her parting words of advice. The children, 
Ellen and Clara, scarcely comprehended what it all meant. 
Marky was going away, but th^n he would soon come back 
again, and they would see him ever so many times, and he 
would bring them such nice presents. Alfred was very 
grave, but he strove to speak in an encouraging and even 
a cheerful tone. 

“ Mother,” he observed, “ this is a great chance for Mark ; 
who would have thought, a few weeks ago, that he would be 
adopted by a rich man, and treated with all the kindness as 
if he was his own chilli ?” 

“ Surely, Alfred, it is unexpected, and Mark must be good, 
and prove himself grateful.” Her eyes filled ; but, stooping, 
she tied his little shoes, and when she looked up again the 
tears were gone. 

Mr. Hilton knocked ; a pallor spread over Mark’s face. 

“He’s come,” he whispered, with white lips, 

“ Courage, Marky, courage !” said Alfred, walking to the 
door and opening it. 

Mr. Hilton came in, seated hirnself, and after a remark or 
two addressed to the widow and Alfred, reached out his 
hand to Mark. “ Well, Mark,” he said, are you most ready 
to come home with me, and be my little boy ?” 


128 AGNES ; OE, 

He made no reply, but, leaning his head on his mother’s 
shoulder, sobbed aloud. 

“ Marky, Marky,” she coaxingly said, “ you mustn’t cry. 
You will now have all the books you want to read, and such 
beautiful pictures ; and by and by you will be able to take 
a little brush in your hands and make pictures yourself.” 



be there !” 


“ Mark,” said Mr. Hilton, drawing his chair up to 
him and laying his hand tenderly on his head, “your 
mother will be there as often as you wish to see her, and 
Alfred, Ellen, and Clara too ; and Martha, you know, is 
there now.” 

“ Martha !” he exclaimed, raising his head. “ Oh, I had 
forgotten it ; yes, she is there, and I won’t be all alone !” 

Mr. Hilton’s countenance grew deathly pale, but, master- 
ing his emotions he drew Mark to him. 

“ No, Mark,” he said, “ you will not be all alone, and 
now dry up your tears, and show them how brave you are.” 

Alfred wished to speak calm and collected, but feeling 
that little Mark’s tears were becoming contagious, to change 
the conversation, he turned to Mr. Hilton and said : 

“I have some good news to tell you, sir; Mr. Simonds 
has raised my salary.” 

“ How much, Alfred ?” 

“One-third, sir.” 

“ And have you agreed to stay with him a year ?” 

“Yes, Mr. Hilton.” 

“ I congratulate you on having your salary raised, but I 
am sorry you are eligaged. I would rather employ you 
myself ; however, the year will pass quickly, and then don’t 
engage with him until you see me.” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


129 


“ T will not, sir, and I should not have done so now if I 
had known you wished to employ me.” 

“Well, never mind, Alfred, it may be all for the best!” 
He turned for little Mark, he had stepped across the room, 
and in a low voice he was conversing with his little sisters. 

“ Come, Mark,” he said, “ kiss them now, and we will be 
going.” 

Mrs, Clement suddenly rose ; ’twas evident she was strug- 
gling with bitter feelings. Alfred rose too. 

“ Mr. Hilton,” he remarked, in rather an unsteady voice, 
“ our home will be little Mark’s home no more.” 

“ No, Alfred; but he is going to those who will cherish 
him as their own.” 

“And, Mr. Hilton,” said the widow, while her lips trem- 
bled, “ when you observe faults in him, be not too hard with 
him ; remember — remember — ” she stopped, unable, with 
any composure, . to proceed. 

Again a change came over Mr. Hilton’s countenance. 
“ Remember, Remember ! Can I ever forget ? As I hope 
for mercy hereafter, the child shall be as my own.” 

He took little Mark by the hand, opened the door, and 
passed out. The widow and Alfred followed. 

“ One more kiss, Marky, and I must hurry to Mr. Si- 
monds.” He took it, silently pressed Mr. Hilton’s hand, 
and walked rapidly away. A moment longer the widow 
lingered. “ The past 1” -she whispered, in Mr. Hilton’s ears. 

“ The past !” he slowly repeated. “ The past !” And 
dashing a tear from his eyes, he tenderly lifted little Mark 
into the carriage. A quick drive, and they were at home. 
In the hall Mr. Hilton met Agnes. Kindly taking her 
hand, he said : 

“ Let me introduce to my dear Agnes her adopted brother.” 


130 


AGKTES ; ■ OR, 


She glanced down on him ; his large blue eyes were 
raised timidly to hers, while he pressed close to her father’s 
side. His golden hair, in short, thick curls, was brushed 
from off his beautiful forehead,, and there was altogether 
such an angelic expression about his countenance, that, 
stooping, she threw her arms around him and kissed him. 

“ Oh, Miss Agnes !” he exclaimed ; “ I am so glad to see 

you again, to thank you for those nice pictures you sent 
me !” 

He forgot his timidity, and now warmly pressed her 
hand. 

“ Then you liked them ?” 

“ Oh yes, very much ; especially the ‘ Fiddler and his 
Pets !’ ” 

Again she kissed him. How she would have loved him, 
but for the demon pride. At that moment she caught a 
glance of Martha standing at the head of the stairs, and 
smiling through her tears. It seemed to Agnes a trium- 
phant expression gleamed from that smile. All the cold, 
angry feelings rushed back to her heart ; rudely pushing 
the fair child from her, with a stately step she passed on to 
her own room, while Mr. Hilton, with a heavy sigh, turned 
with little Mark into one of the parlors. 

A week passed, and Agnes, in her own room, was taking 
copies from a sketch-book; -for some time she worked dili- 
gently away, then a frown lowered on her brow, and, drop- 
ping her pencil, she leaned her head on her hands. Hard 
lines settled • round her mouth ; she was thinking of little 
Mark Clement and his family. Why had her parents per- 
sisted in taking him ? Was there no other child but their 
seamstress’s brother ? Was Mark Clement any more an ob- 
ject of charity than a hundred others, whose friends wonld 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


131 


jiever presume to intrude upon her home ? “ They think,” 

she bitterly exclaimed, “to make me yield ; but never, never 
•will I look upon him as a brother while his go-between of 
a sister is in the house.” Against Martha, in particular, 
was her animosity directed ; but for her hateful presence, 
Mark’s beauty and winning ways would have easily gained 
her affections. She never once considered that the poor 
girl, having so beautiful and charming a brother, would all 
the more bitterly lament that poverty which obliged them 
to transfer hfm to other hands; how, a menial in the house, 
she would see him raised to a station above her ; how sad 
thoughts of her almost idolized father would arise ; wliat 
great changes had come over them since his sickness and 
death ; the home-circle broken, his children separated, some 
raised up, and others cast down. Ah, poor girl, such re- 
flections as these will be no strangers to thy heart ; and yet 
Agnes, blinded by pride and wilfulness, sees and heeds it 
not ! 

She arose, and going to the piano, raised the lid. Seat- 
ing herself, her slender fingers swept the pearl keys, and 
she seemed about to commence a bold, spirited march, 
when suddenly changing her mind, she more lightly touched 
the keys ; a faint prelude followed, and she sang a sweet 
Italian air of touching sadness. Tears trembled in her 
eyes, and, unable to finish it, she bowed her face upon her 
hands and wept. She was not thinking now of M irtha, 
Mark, or her mother or father ; no, her thoughts had flown 
to one whose every feature was indelibly printed on her 
heart — one whose rich, manly voice, had joined hers the 
last time she sang the strain ; then she was all joyous and 
happy, and the sad air seemed in strange contrast with 
her buoyant feelings ; now a shadow had fallen over her — a 


132 


AGITES; OR, 

shadow “ no bigger than a man’s hand hut which threat- 
ened to obscure all the peace and sunshine of her home. 
Ohj if he were only with her, how soothingly would his 
words fall on her ears ! but he was gone, and kpew not how 
coldly her parents had turned. She gloved Walter Starr 
with all the wild devotion of her proud, passionate nature ; 
and yet, as she now longed for his presence, she instinct- 
ively shrank from the thought of ever revealing to him the 
cause of her sorrow. Noble and generous as^he was, might 
he not think it betrayed a selfish and unfeeling heart ? Not 
so with Becky ; equally generous with her brother, she 
felt she could confide in her, could tell her all. She did 
not reflect how unjust was the cause of her grief, how it 
discovered a baneful passion — a passion which, if not re- 
strained, would destroy all the natural goodness of her 
heart, and make her wretched in this world, and forever mis- 
erable in the next ; no, she did not think of this, she only 
knew she was unhappy, and she longed to hear Becky’s gen- 
tle voice, and feel her soft hand pressed lovingly on her brow. 
Raising her pale face, her slender Angers once more swept 
the keys, and with a voice quivering with emotion, she sang : 

“ More constant’ than the evening star, 

Which mildly beams above ; 

Than diadem, oli, dearer far, 

A sister’s gentle love ! 

Brighter than dew-drop on the rose, 

Than Nature’s smile more gay ; 

A living fount which ever flows, 

Warmed by love’s purest ray. 

Gem of the heart ! Life’s gift divine, 

Bequeathed us from above ; 

Glad offering at affection’s shrine, 

A sister’s holy love 1” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


133 


Her voice became more calm, and rising from the instru- 
ment, she exclaimed : 

“ Yes, Becky has ever been to me a sister, kind and true.” 
A faint tinge suffused her cheek as she thought of the time 
when Becky would have a stronger claim to the name sis- 
ter than mere gratitude. She seated herself before her 
tapestry-frame, took several stitches, then went to her draw- 
er for more worsted ; again she saw the manuscript, her 
curiosity was once more excited, and, sinking into an arm- 
chair, she turned to the second chapter. 

“ The dreary months of winter passed, and the beautiful 
months of Spring flung their fragrance over the world. Na- 
ture, animate and inanimate, seemed to rejoice ; but still, 
from one little home the voice of lamentation arose. Mr. 
Ilarny lingered on, but how pale, how emaciated ! A few 
days, and his pilgrimage shall close ; a few days, and no 
more shall those racking pains assail him. His gentle wife 
glides like a spirit through the house struggling with her 
sorrow, and never easy unless preparing some delicacy, or 
busied in some way for him. Oh, if by some powerful 
effort she could wake and find it all a 'dream — a fearful 
dream — his sickness and approaching death, her loneli- 
ness and desolation, what joy would thrill her heart ! Al- 
ways tenderly attached to him, how would her love increase 
ten-fold ! But, ah ! it may not be, it is no dream, no wild 
and fearful dream ; but a stern, aching reality. Little Joe 
has awakened to the sorrows of earth ; the flowers of child- 
hood have faded, and only a desolate moor stretches on be- 
fore him. Eden’s music is hushed; the ashes of Eve’s 
forbidden fruit are strewn upon his heart ; he writhes in 
the bitterness of new-born sorrow, and would fain escape it 


134 


AGNES ; OE, 


if lie could. One day he was sitting at his father’s bedside, 
slowly fanning him ; the invalid’s eyes were closed, and he 
bent his head to hear if he still breathed ; a light step 
sounded near, and looking up, he saw his mother standing 
beside him. A tear coursed down her cheek, and fell upon 
his forehead. 

“‘Must he die?’ he whispered, and the words smote so 
heavily on his heart, that, dropping the fan, he rushed from 
the house, and throwing himself under a tree near by, 
sobbed and cried in very helplessness of woe. His dog. 
followed, and nestling his huge head against him, whined 
and moaned, as if he fully comprehended the cause of his 
young master’s grief. 

“ ‘ Oh, Douce ! Douce ! go away,’ he cried, at the same time 
that he threw his arms around his neck, and sobbed with 
more vehemence than ever. 

“ ‘ Must he die ? Must he be taken from us ? Oh, father ! 
father !’ and tears rained over his cheeks. The singing of 
the birds, the gay sunshine, the clear blue sky looking so 
peacefully down — all, all seemed to mock him in his agony ; 
and hugging the dog closer to his heart, he wept like one 
not to be comforted. 

“Several weeks passed; it was at the close of one of 
those days, in early summer, that seem to pale and trem« 
ble at the remembrance of the wild storms of winter. The 
sighing breeze was silent, as if listening to some far-off 
echo of the past ; shadows crept over the green fields, and 
the sky, lately so blue, looked pensive and sad behind _ her 
veil of fast-gathering clouds. Mr. Ilarny sat bolstered up 
in bed, the hectic glow burned on his cheek ; his eyes, sunk 
far in his head, were fixed upon a crucifix he held in his 
feeble hands. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


135 


“‘Agnes,’ he faintly exclaimed, ‘is it time to take my 
next potion ?’ 

“ She glanced at the clock : ‘ No, dearest, it lacks fifteen 
minutes ; but if you feel very weak, you can take it now ; 
the doctor said you could take it whenever you felt a bad 
turn coming on.’ 

“‘Give it me then,’ he gasped." The flush faded from 
his cheek; heavy drops of perspiration stood on his brow. 
She flew to the stand, poured out some liquid from a vial 
into a tea-cup, and quickly returiling, raised his head on 
her arm, and placed the cup to his lips. 

“ ‘ Try to sw'allow, dearest,’ she exclaimed, in a trembling 
voice, while her cheeks blanched nearly as pale as his own. 
With difliculty he swallowed the draught ; she reached the 
cup to little Joe, and wiped the glistening drops from his 
brow. He opened his mouth and gasped for air ; Nellie 
Connor, who stayed constantly with the family, hastily threw 
up the window, and drew aside the curtain ; the door was al- 
ready open. Oh ! it Avas fearful to witness his struggles ; he 
convulsively clutched the bed-clothes, his nostrils became 
rigid, and a pitiful, helpless look of agony shone from his eyes. 
Ilis wife bathed his temples, chafed his hands, did every thing 
in her power to relieve him ; little Joe, in awe, buried his 
head in the bed-clothes, and wondered he could not cry. 

“ ‘ 0 Jesus, pity ! Holy Mary, pray for him !’ exclaimed 
the sorrow-stricken wife, in accents of terror and anguish. 
Nellie poured more medicine into the cup, and handed it 
to her ; again she raised his head on h6r arm, and placed 
the potion *o his lips. 

“ ‘ Oh, Francis !’ she entreated, ‘try .to take one shallow, 
it will help you ; do, dearest, do.’ He raised his hand as 
if grasping for something, and, with a quick movement she 


136 


AGNES ; OE, 


poured the liquid into his mouth ; collecting all his ener- 
gies, he forced it down. 

“ Dark clouds hastily ushered in the night ; the winds 
swept ruthlessly round the house, regardless of the pain 
and suffering within. Nellie flew to the door and closed it, 
but left the window up ; the rain came down in torrents, 
bright flashes of lightning streamed in through the windows, 
lighting up, with a weird unearthly %ht, the little room, 
for one brief moment, and then leaving it darker than be- 
fore. Little Joe hastened to light a candle, while the deep- 
toned thunder seemed to keep time with the heavy feeling 
of despair tugging at his heart. 

“ ‘ O God ! have pity on thy suffering child,’ exclaimed 
Nellie, sinking on her knees ; ‘ Mother of Sorrows*, by the 
anguish which fllled thy heart when standing at the foot of 
Calvary’s Cross, pray for him, assist him, and help him in 
this great hour of need ! Dearest Jesus, who suffered death 
that all might live, look down with pity on the greatness 
of his distress!’ 

“ Little Joe, not knowing what to do, and anxious to do 
something, knelt down beside her, and tried to pray ; but, 
poor child, all he could utter was : ‘ Father of Heaven, 
pity poor father ! Holy Mary, pray for him 1’ 

“ A glance from his mother, who was holding his father’s 
head on her arm — for, raised up, the sufferer seemed better 
able to breathe — and he was at her side. ‘ Tell Nellie to get 
some hot cloths,’ she whispered, ‘to wrap round your fath- 
er’s hands ; they are very cold, and doubtless his feet too.’ 

“ At last his breathing became easier ; the perspiration 
drie(J from his brow, and the hectic glow mantled his cheek. 

“ ‘ Thank God ! you are better, dearest !’ fer'^entlv ex 
claimed the pale wife. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


135 


“ ‘ Lay me back against the piHow,’ he faintly murmured. 

“ Once more comparatively easy, he closed his eyes and 
slept, or seemed to sleep. The storm went down, the 
winds died away, and the silence of night reigned in the 
sick chamber. Mrs. Harny sat by his side, little Joe had 
been sent to bed, and Nellie been prevailed upon to lie 
down. The light, with a book placed like a screen before 
it, to shade its glare from the sufferer’s face, was burning 
dimly on the bureau, the loud ticking of the clock fell 
gratingly on her ear ; she feared it might waken him, and 
was just arising, intending to stop the pendulum, .and thus 
silence its deep, heavy tick, when he opened his eyes and 
said : ‘ 

“ ‘ Never mind the clock, it does not annoy me.’ 

“ Quietly she reseated herself, and in a faint voice, he 
continued : ‘ In the morning, Agnes, I think you had better 
send little Joe for Mr. Connor, and have them send Maurice 
for the priest. My heart tells me there is one there now 
to fill Father Shell’s place,’ 

“‘Yes, dearest, as soon as the sun rises I will call him 
up.’ She kissed his thin hand, and strove to appear com- 
posed. 

“ ‘ Agnes !’ a tremor passed over his face ; ‘ it’s most 
over ; but bear up, we will not be long separated.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Francis !’ was all she could say. 

“ ‘ Agnes, you have been my good angel in life, be my 
good angel in death, and when you see me straggling in 
the last agonj^, with the arms of prayer and resignation 
assist me then.’ ^ • 

“ ‘ I will ! I promise I will !’ she sobbed, bowing her face 
upon her hands. 

“ Weariedly he closed his eyes; and again all was still. 


138 


AGNES ; OR, 


A broad belt of light iii,tbe east betokened the approach 
of another day ; broader and broader it grew, till the shades 
of night faded before 'it, and the sun gloriously ascended 
the horizon. Little Joe was awakened by a light touch on 
his shoulde^ his pale mother bent over him. 

“ ‘ Awake, my child,’ she whispered ; ‘ dress yourself as 
fast as you can, say your praye'rs, and come out to breakfast ; 
you are to go for Mr. Connor.’ 

“ ‘ And father !’ he e^f claimed, wildly starting up. 

“She placed her finger on his lips. ^ Hush ! do not dis- 
turb him, he is in a light sleep.’ With a noiseless step she 
left him. Little Joe dressed himself with all dispatch, said 
his prayers, and on tiptoe stole from the room to the sum- 
mer kitchen, or back room as it was called. Here a com- 
fortable breakfast awaited him, and as he hastily partook 
of it, his poor mother delivered to him the message he was 
to take to the Connor family. With as heavy a heart as 
ever child had, he started on his errand. It was a beauti- 
ful morning ; all earth looked refreshed after the shower. 
As he left the little lane, and entered the woods, he thought 
of the time, the summer before, when his father took him 

to A , to attend Mass. The priest passing down the 

aisles sprinkling the congregation with holy water; the 
breath of incense ascending on high ; the music of the 
choir, reminding him of the angel band his mother had 
told him of — all came back; and now, as he gazed upon 
the cloud-like vapors arising from the meadows, felt the 
cool drops fall on his face from the breeze-shaken boughs, 
and listened to the choral hymns of the Ibirds and the 
anthem-like voice of the winds, it seemed all nature was 
assisting at a grand celebration of the Holy Sacrifice ; 
sinking on his knees, he clasped his hands, and gazed 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


139 


through the leafy canopy, at patches of the dark, blue sky, 
till it almost seemed he gazed 

“‘Through opening vistas into heaven.’ 

“ He remembered how much his father wished to see a 
priest, and now he prayed a priest might be sent to him. Ari- 
sing, with all haste, he pursued his way ; a bounding step 
and panting breath caused his heart strangely to thrill ; he 
looked behind him, with a sharp, shrill bark of satisfaction, 
Douce sprang to his side. Laying his hand on. the faithful 
creature’s head, he hurried on. Emerging from the woods, 
he came to a spot where, the summer before, his mother 
and father picked a large basket of strawberries ; he was 
with them — Douce too; oh, how happy, how joyous he was, 
running from the berries into the woods, gathering crinkle 
root and ginseng, visiting his bird-nests, the robin away 
up in a maple, the woodpecker in the side of a partially 
decayed elm, and the sweet little bluebird in the cavity of 
a tall stump — then, running back to his parents, who, as 
they picked the luscious fruit, talked of their labors and 
laid out plans for the future. Wiping the tears from his 
eyes, he hurried from a spot so fraught with painful recol- 
lections. Alone, from all of their own creed, since the 
sorrow and desolation of sickness had come upon them, 
his father had loved to dwell on the Blessed Virgin, St. 
Joseph, and the child Jesus’ sojourn in the dark land of 
Egypt, 2i\\^y from their dear Jerusalem, and in the long 
winter evenings, at his father’s request, his mother, in her 
low, sweet voice, had often sung that plaintive hymn : 

“ ‘Like the children of Zion on Babylon’s shore, 

When Jerusalem, their country, smiled round them no more.’ 


140 


AGNES ; OK, 


“ ‘ Oh, father ! father !’ in wailing sounds, burst from his 
lips. It was seven miles, across lots, to Mr. Connor’s. As 
Mrs. Connor came from her dairy, to look after the dinner, 
little Joe, with flushed cheeks and swollen eyes, appeared 
in the open door before her. Raising both hands, she 
wildly exclaimed : 

“‘Little Joe Harny ! Your father — how is he? how is 
he V 

“ Little Joe hurriedly replied : ‘ Last night we thought 
him dying, but he is better now, and wants to see Mr. Con- 
nor, and Lave you send Maurice for the priest; he says 
this time he won’t be' disappointed, he will surely find a 
priest there.’ 

“‘Yes, yes; I don’t doubt it. Maurice shall go; God 
will not let his servant depart without coming to light him 
through the dark way.’ 

“ Instead of sinking on a chair, the assurance that 
Maurice should go for the priest, that his father should see 
a priest before he died, so encouraged him that he no lon- 
ger felt fatigued, but was all anxious, all eager, to go di- 
rectly back with the welcome news. But Mrs. Connor 
would not hear of it. ‘Sit down, child, sit down; yon 
will ride over with us ; for I will go too,’, she said, turning 
'to a girl of eighteen or nineteen; ‘ his mother must have 
some one besides Nellie. Ah ! it’s a sad, sad trial for her, 
poor thing, so pale and thin, so just like a shadow herself.’ 
The kind matron wiped a tear from her eye. 

“ ‘ Bernard, Bernard,’ she called aloud. A boy of ten 
or 'twelve years, with two other children, came bounding 
in. Seeing little Joe, they rushed up to him with the 
eager joyousness of 9hildhood, and, for the first time that 
morning, a smile lit up his tear-stained face. ‘ Bernard !’ 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


141 


exclaimed Mrs. Connor : " run to the field just as fast as 
ever you can, and tell your father and Maurice to come 
right up, little J oe Harny’s here, and to send Mike to the 
pasture for the horses. Kerens your cap ; quick, child, 
quick.’ 

“ The child snatched the cap, and darted from the house. 
Mrs. Connor bustled about, hurrying up the dinner, giving 
directions to Bridget about the cheese the next morning ; 
how much rennet to put into the milk, and, after carefully 
cutting the curds, how to fix them in the press ; telling 
Fanny and Hughy to be good children, and mind their 
elder sister while she and their father were gone, and to 
take good care of Miles, a fat-cheeked, dimpled little dar- 
ling of fifteen or sixteen months. Then she went into the 
next room to prepare herself. Mr. Connor, Maurice, and 
Bernard soon came in ; glancing at little Joe, Mr. Connor 
saw him surrounded by his happy, light-hearted children, 
who were all looking pityingly into his face, and in trying 
to comfort him, child-like, probing his wounds still deeper. 

“ ‘ And so they are going to put your father into a box, 
and bury him away down in the ground,’ said little Hughy. 
‘I wouldn’t let them do it,’ he indignantly exclaimed. 

“ ‘ Sure he can’t help it,’ said Fanny. 

“ ‘ But it can be helped,’ persisted Hughy, standing on 
tiptoe, and lovingly twining his arms around his neck, ‘ it 
can be helped ; for father’s going over, and he won’t let 
them put him in the ground. Don’t cry, Joe ; for I tell 
you father won’t let them do it.’ 

“ ‘ Do stop, Hughy !’ said Fanny, ‘ don’t you see you are 
only grieving him still more ?’ 

“ The brave little fellow looked up,' greatly puzzled how 
his words could possibly give pain. Mr. Connor, having 


142 


AGNES ; OR, 


c 


heard from his wife all the particulars, came and seated 
himself in the midst of the children, drew little Joe to him, 
took out his great cotton pocket-handkerchief, and pushing 
the hair from his forehead, wiped the tears from his cheeks, 
and tried in his plain simple way to comfort him. 

“As they were sitting down to dinner, Mike came in. 
After the meal, Mrs. Connor kissed little Miles and Hughy, 
gave a few more directions to Bridget, and charging the 
children to mind her till she and their father got back, she 
sprang into the heavy lumber wagon. Little Joe was seated 
beside her, on the back seat ; Maurice and Mr. Connor took 
the front. With the team they could not go ‘ cross lots,’ 
and, consequently, had to go around the long way, making 
a distance of ten miles. At the village of Stanton, Maurice 
left them, and, hiring a horse and light wagon, proceeded 
to A , for the priest.” 


As Agnes concluded the second chapter, she paused ere 
turning to the next. Never before had she felt so deeply 
interested in the hero of any story, as she now felt inter- 
ested in little Joe Harny. She who turned so coldly from 
little Mark Clement, who, too, had early drunk the cup of 
sorrow, could tenderly sympathize with little Joe. llis 
person had not been described, and yet he arose before her 
with bright black eyes, fine, clear complexion, and hair of 
the richest, darkest brown. As for his being a fictitious 
character, an imaginary being, such a thought never occur- 
red to her. , She had read many a novel, and would have 
smiled with supreme contempt at the imputation of believ- 
ing any of the characters, incidents, or any thing connected 
with them had any foundation in truth — that they were 
pictures, more or less fairly drawn, of real, njot realities of, 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


14S " 


life, she readily admitted. But now, she looked on the life 
of little Joe Harny as a veritable history, and it had for 
her a strange, almost mysterious, interest. What a paradox 
is the human heart ! how full of seeming contradictions ! 
Agnes was at once cruel and hard-hearted, kind and im- 
pulsive. Since little Mark came into the family, save the 
morning she met him and her father in the hall, she had 
studiously avoided him. The poor child felt that some- 
thing was wrong, but Mr. and Mrs. Hilton were so kind, 
trying to make up for her coldness, that, as yet, he compre- 
hended not what that something was. As to Martha, were 
it not for the increased pallor of her cheek, one might sup- 
pose that she, too, was unconscious of it. As Agnes was 
about to turn to the next chapter, a servant entered bearing 
a letter from Becky Starr. She was almost tempted to 
lay it aside for the present, but the hope it might contain 
some little word about Walter, caused her to change her 
mind, and the manuscript was slipped into her drawer. 
Bidding the servant loop farther back the heavy crimson 
curtains, she leaned her head upon her hand, and gave her- 
self up to the pleasure of Becky’s letter. 


144 


AGNES ; OE, 


CHAPTER IX. 

It was the afternoon of the next day, that Agnes, after 
a lengthened call on Mrs. Starr, returned home ; and, im- 
mediately repairing to her room, seated herself before her 
desk, drew out the manuscript, and commenced the third 
chapter. 

“ Leaving Mr. Connor to sit by the bedside of their sick 
friend, Mrs. Connor went out to the little - hack kitchen, 
where Nellie was busy ironing. 

“ ‘ Nellie,’ she said, ‘ there’s no time to lose, I must hurry 
and bake up things to have in the house for the comers 
and goers.’ She would have said burial or funeral, but she 
could not bring herself to utter the word. 

“ ‘ Oh, mother !’ exclaimed Nellie, pausing in her ironing 
and looking up, ‘do you think he is really so low?’ 

“‘Yes, Nellie; he has fearfully changed since we saw 
him a week ago.’ 

“ ‘ Last night he ha'd one of his bad turns, but we thought 
it was the shower coming up ; he is always worse at such 
times. But, mother,’ she stepped nearer Mrs. Connor, ‘ I 
really feared he would never have another. I don’t know 
what will become of her; she prays and tries to be re- 
signed, but she’s all of a tremble whenever she speaks of 
his death.’ 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


145 


“ ‘ But mother will bear it. God will give her grace to 
be resigned; he will not forsake her.’ Little Joe had 
come in unobserved, and was sitting on a bench near the 
door. 

“ Mrs. Connor’s sympathy was literally of the active 
kind ; she could not sit still a moment. She looked into 
the cream-pot, it was nearly full, and the thunder of the 
preceding night had soured all the milk ; she skimmed the 
pans, put the cream into the churn, and set Nellie, who 
had by this time got through with her ironing, to churn- 
ing ; then she went about making pies and cakes, and pre- 
paring the yeast for the baking of bread early the next 
day. Her rapid movements reminded little Joe of happier 
times, when his own dear mother’s step was as light and 
buoyant, and covering his face with his hands he turned to 
the wall and wept. 

“‘Don’t cry, little Joe.’ Nellie rested one hand on his 
shoulder, and bent over him with such pitying concern in 
her tones that his tears fell all the faster. 

“ ‘ Oh, Nellie ! Nellie !’ he sobbed, ‘ it all comes over me 
so. Father is going, and we’ll soon be all alone. Oh, 
Nellie ! Nellie !’ 

No, Joe ; don’t say that — don’t say all alone. Haven’t 
you got us, and don’t we feel just as if you were our rela- 
tions ?’ The poor child looked up into her face, and then, 
with the sudden impulsiveness of childhood, arose and 
threw his arms around her neck. At that moment Mrs. 
Connor entered the room with a tray of flour. 

“ ‘ That is right, Nellie, try and comfort the poor child, 
and if your churning is done take him out under the trees. 

“ The churning was done, and she led him out. The 
cool breeze fanned his hot brow ; there was the starry dan- 
7 


146 


AGNES ; OE, 


delion, the white and red clover, the bunch of violets by 
the little gate ; the lilacs and early roses his father had 
planted, and his mother had tended with so much — we can- 
not say pride; for pride is a hateful word, not at all ex- 
pressive of the feeling she experienced ; neither does the 
word pleasure suit us, when used in connection with that 
deep, quiet, all-pervading happiness^ — that spiritual exalta- 
tion that was not altogether a prayer, and yet was so allied 
to praise that the idea of devotion seemed indissolubly 
cpnnected with it. Little Joe looked at them, till each 
seemed to speak back his own grief; each seemed to feel 
all the loneliness that pressed upon his heart. lie could 
stand it no longer, and with bowed head he turned and 
walked into the house. 

“ Mrs. Connor paused not in her work till, at last, the tea- 
table was set, and a small piece of toast, neatly covered, 
stood on the hearth for the invalid. She then went into 
the room where he lay, and, with a kindness that was not 
to be resisted, insisted on Mrs. Harny going out and taking 
her supper, allowing her to wait on him during his meal. 

“ ‘ And, James,’ she addressed her husband, ‘ go too, I can 
do better alone.’ 

“ As Mrs. Harney sat down at the table, she glanced at 
the row of pies and tins of cake on the shelf by the win- 
dow, and a shudder ran through her whole frame. Turn- 
ing to Nellie, she said : 

“‘Your mother is very thoughtful, very kind ; they will 
be all needed — why, what is this V she exclaimed, rubbing 
her eyes ; but a dimness had come over them ; reeling, she 
fell into Nellie’s arms. 

“Mr. Connor and Nellie carried her to the door; little 
Joe, with wonderful command of his feelings brought the 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


147 


camphor bottle ; but, as lie rubbed her hands, with a low 
wailing cry, he called on her not to go ; not to leave him 
alone, all alone. Poor child ! his little heart seemed steeped 
in the waters of bitterness. At length, a deep-drawn sigh 
announced that his mother had returned to a consciousness 
of her misery. Rising up, and going out, where her sob- 
bing might not falf on the ear of her husband, and add to 
his pain, she seated herself under a tree, and with little 
Joe’s hand in hers, gave vent to her sorrow in a paroxysm 
of tears. The golden red fn the west faded away ; dark- 
ness gathered around them. Little Joe looked up and 
twining his arms around her, softly whispered : 

“ ‘ Mother T don’t cry any more ; see, the stars are look- 
ing down kindly upon us.’ 

“ Mechanically she raised her eyes ; the unnumbered 
lamps of heaven were all lit up. In their twinkling dis- 
tance they seemed to her the watch-fires of that heavenly 
home where man redeemed never feels more the blighting 
hand of sorrow. Yes, he was going there ; her husband — 
her noble husband — and would she keep him back — 'back 
from the joys in store for him — back from the choirs that 
were waiting to receive him ? Her head sunk on her chest, 
and she was lost in thought, till a hand was kindly, but en- 
ergetically, laid upon her shoulder. 

“ ‘ Why, child !’ exclaimed the thoughtful Mrs. Connor, 
‘you must not sit here, you will catch your death of cold. 
Just feel your dress, how damp it is. Come right in ! 
Come right in !’ 

“ She passed her arm around her, and helped her to arise. 
‘ There now, lean on me. And, child, don’t feel so bad ; 
remember ’tis the will of God, and sure he wouldn’t afflict 
you but for some wise purpose. Afflicting ! Why, isn’t he 


148 


AGNES ; OR, 


doing the greatest good to him, taking hun to his grand 
heaven, away from all the sorrows and wickedness of the 
world ? Oh, child, child, why should you mourn? Isn’t he 
showing him great favor taking him to himself?’ 

“ ‘ I have been selfish, very selfish !’ exclaimed Mrs. Har- 
ny, clinging closer to her. 

“ ‘ No, not selfish, child ; you couldn’t help it.’ She 
feared her words, intending to be soothing, implied a re- 
proof. ‘ Heaven help her, poor stricken one !’ she mentally 
exclaimed, drawing her to her warm, faithful heart. 

“ They entered the house ; a lighted candle stood on the 
stand, and its dim flame, swayed by the wind coming in 
through the window, shed a fitful light through the room. 
Little Joe, weary with his long walk and after ride, sank on 
the bench near the door. Young as he was, how memory, 
with her painful contrasts, tortured him ! A year ago he 
had sat on the same bench with his father and-mother, and 
-watched the fire-flies, and listened with charmed ears* to 
the katydids answering each other from the trees near by. 
His mother, too, had sung her favorite hymn, ‘Ave Maria, 
day is declining,’ while his father’s rich manly voice, tak- 
ing up the refrain, filled the air w-ith one of the beautiful 
melodies of the Catholic Church, but now he was going 
away. No more in that humble cottage would his voice 
be heard in grateful praise ; a fcnv more sobbing prayers, 
and to earth it will be forever hushed. Douce came in, 
laid his head on little Joe’s knee, and looked up sorrow- 
fully into his face. Poor dog! he too felt that the King of 
Terrors w’as near, for he shuddered, looked wistfully around 
him, and crowded up closer to the child. 

“ Mrs. Harny sat near the head of the bed, holding a 
wasted hand of her husband’s in hers ; his large, sunken 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


149 


eyes slowly turned in their sockets till they rested on her 
face. 

“ ‘ Courage, dearest,’ he faintly murmured. WitlT a calm- 
er countenance than she had worn for weeks, she replied : 

“ ‘ Yes, courage, for it is God who calls thee, Francis, from 
this dying life to undying bliss.’ 

“ He looked at her wonderingly, and while a smile irradi- 
ated his pale, sunken features, in a hollow voice exclaimed : 

“ ‘ My prayer is heard. I prayed for this. Oh, Agnes, in 
pain and agony I prayed for this, that God might give 
you grace to be resigned ! He will not forsake you. He is 
the protector of the widow, and the Father of the fatherless.’ 
He glanced at the crucifix on his breast; she raised it to his 
lips, and he reverently kissed it.. The hours wore on. A 
long dreary night it was, but at last day broke in the east. 
A few more hours, and Maurice, with the priest, would be 
back. Oh, who could tell how anxiously they looked for 
them ! Every hour the sufferer waxed feebler and feebler, 
his extremities became cold, the fluttering pulse ascended 
the arm. As the sun crept in at the western window, they 
all knelt around his bed, and, in a firyi voice, Mr. Con- 
nor read aloud the prayers for the dying. After all his 
longing desire's to see a priest, he was to go while the priest 
was on his way to him. He opened his eyes, and looked 
searchingly around. In a hoarse whisper he pronounced 
the name ‘ Agnes.’ 

“ ‘ What, dearest ?’ she bent her head to catch his words. 

“ ‘ The priest — ’tis God’s will — praises to his holy name !’ 
He made an effort to sign himself, for the last time, with the 
sign of the cross. She took his cold hand in hers, raised it 
to his forehead, rested it a moment on his chest, guided it 
to the left, then to the right shoulder. A smile rested on his 


150 


AGNES ; OR, 


face. Little Joe left the room, to see if he could possibly 
catch a glimpse of Maurice and the priest. He came back 
on tiptoe, and whispered to his mother as Maurice and the 
priest came in. A thrill passed over the dying man’s frame 
as the word priest fell faintly on his ear ; he looked up, the 
veil that was fast gathering over his eyes cleared away ; an 
eager, joyous expression lit up his countenance. The priest 
glanced at the stand and took onp of the vials, his knowl- 
edge of medicine at once told him tiie nature of its contents ; 
promptly he administered a large portion. ’Twas astonish- 
ing to see what a change came over the sufferer ; his breath- 
ing became easier, and once more, in a faint voice, he was 
able to speak. They all left the room ; putting on his stole, 
the priest sat down beside him, heard his confession, and 
administered the Last Sacrament. The family again gath- 
ered round the bed, the pale wife gazed for a moment on 
the face of her husband, and, without a groan, fell heavily 
back into Mrs. Connor’s arms. His spirit had winged its 
flight to a better world ; his pain and suffering were all 
past. They carried poor Mrs. Harny out, and it was some 
time before they succeeded in restoring her to conscious- 
ness. Little Joe clung to Father John, crying and sobbing, 
but when his mother opened her eyes he fleSv to her, and 
threw his arms around her neck. 

“ ‘lie told me to be resigned !’ she faintly -said. Father 
John spoke kind and soothing words, but with her arms 
clasped round little Joe, and her eyes fixed on the ground, 
she seemed not to hear them. With white lips she contin- 
ued to murmur, ‘ lie told me to be resigned ! He told me 
to be resigned !’ 

“ Extremely alarmed, Mrs. Connor entreated all to leave 
her, that, alone with her, she might rouse her from her fear- 


VIEWS OF CATHOLTCITY. 


151 


fill, apathy. Sho begged her, by her duty as a Christian, 
by the reverence for the last wish of her .husband, to be re- 
signed ; and by her love for Joe, poor little Joe, to rouse 
up and try to live. But her words fell on unheeding ears. 
No murmur, no sound now escaped the white lips, but such 
a look of desolate wretchedness gleamed out from the fixed 
eyes, that Mrs. Connor clasped her cold hands in hers, and 
falling on her knees, in wild, impassioned language, called 
on her who is our refuge in affliction, our consolation in 
suflfering. Jesus loved his mother, and is it not a shame 
that those who profess to be Christians should feel scandal- 
ized when ‘the fruits of her intercession are mentioned ? 
The poor widow listened, at first, with that abstraction of 
glance one sees in the somnambulist ; then, while a great 
flush swept over her face, she leaned her head on Mrs. Con- 
nor’s shoulder, and wept till the fearful agony was calmed 
in a shower of tears. 

When the Neighbors heard of the death of Mr. Harny, 
they were greatly astonished that they had not been in- 
formed of his being worse, so they might have offered their 
assistance ; but the invalid had preferred to have only the 
Connors around him during the last great agony. Only 
those who had been sick and brought down to the verge of 
the grave, can realize the desolation of the soul away from 
the church, the sacraments, and all the hallowing influence 
of religion in the midst of strangers hostile to our creed, 
that treasure we cling to with greater fondness at the clos- 
ing hour, the link that binds us to heaven, the torch that 
lights us through the shadowy valley, our mentor in life, 
and angel in death — angel that leaves us not, but bears us 
safely, through all the dark places, up to the presence-cham- 
ber of the Deity. Oh, holy, thrice holy religion! Wefl 


V ii o 


AGNES ; OE, 


may thy children shrink from hearing, with their dying ears, 
one word against thy faithful love ; well may they long to 
have only those around them who, like themselves, love and 
revere thee. But now he was gone, the struggle past, the 
victory gained, and they all came hastening in. One went 
to the village of Stockton Mills to order a coffin, and pur- 
chase a few mourning things, remembering to get these lat- 
ter of a quality that would not afterwards be distressing for 
the widow to pay ; another went over to the Connors, to let 
those at home know the event, and dig a grave. On Mr. 
Connor’s farm a little plot had been fenced in, where, for 

want of a cemetery nearer than A , two of his children 

and one other Catholic had been buried. The women offer- 
ed every assistance : one brought in a black bonnet, another a 
black crape veil, and another a rich mourning shawl. She 
could^ indeed they urged she must, take them ; they, their 
owners, would not need them till after the funeral. 

“ Oh, there is a blessed feeling of sympa^y and benevo- 
lence in the noble-hearted Americans. What other people 
on the face of the earth can be so disinterestedly, so touch- 
ingly kind in the hour of great affliction ? Who so careful 
lest, by any thoughtless word, they wound the heart already 
steeped in sorrow ? Who so soon forget that the sorrow- 
stricken is a stranger — a member of a creed they have, by 
interested parties, been taught to look upon with distrust, to 
use no harsher term ? That sickness is in the family, that 
the shadow of Death is hovering around it, is all-sufficient 
to gain their kindliest sympathies. When the neighbors saw 
Father John sprinkle the corpse with Holy Water, when 
the widow, little Joe, and the Connors fell on their knees, 
and begged his blessing, instead of sneering smiles and 
scornful words, tears sprang to their eyes, and they turned 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


153 


sobbingly away. Ob, may tho time come when their eyes 
will be opened to the glories of our beautiful religion ; 
when their kind hearts will learn to prize the soul-touching 
sweetness of that faith which they cannot look upon un- 
moved. 

“ Father John dared not wait to celebrate Mass the next 
morning, as the Connors so earnestly desired he should. 
No ; others might be as anxiously watching for him as they 
that day had watched. 'What a life of toil — toil without 
rest, the priests of those days led ! When Maurice reached 

A , he had just returned from a sick call of some thirty 

miles ; without a moment’s rest, he said a little prayer, started 
with the new messenger, and, stopping only to change 
horses, reached, as the reader has seen, barely in time to 
administer the Last Sacrament to the dying man. No, ho 
must not stay ; Maurice started back with him that night. 
Two days after, the remains of Mr. Harny, followed by 
many of the neighbors, were borne to the grave. It was a 
beautiful day ; a quiet serenity reigned over all, the roses 
on the graves seemed almost tempted to close their delicate 
petals, the tall grass forgot to wave, and the birds, way up 
in the tree-tops, hushed their wild songs, and only chirruped 
forth their gentlest notes. Nellie remained at home. 
Bridget and Michael accompanied the widow, and little Joe 
back to the desolate house.” 

As Agnes finished the chapter, she laid the manuscript 
on her desk, and, approaching the piano, raised the lid ; for 
a moment she paused, then her fingers swept the pearl keys, 
and the soul-subduing, soul-entrancing Dies irce, swelled 
on the air. When she had sung several stanzas, she leaned 
her head on her hands, and the melody ceased. Her fath- 

I ij* 


154 


AGNES ; OR, 


er’s quick, nervous rap was heard ; he opened the door and 
came in. But Agnes raised not her head ; an indescribable 
feeling had come over her. ’Twas now several days since 
little Mark had become a member of the family ; during 
this time she had shunned her father’s society as much as 
possible, and, when unavoidably in his presence, had treated 
him with marked coldness. This, it cannot be denied, 
caused her many a lonely hour, many a remorseful pang, 
when, to drown the voice of conscience, she would either 
fall into a violent passion, or sink into a sullen and stubborn 
mood. She had hoped her continued coldness and icy 
wretchedness would move the hearts of her parents, and 
cause them to yield to her wishes, either to dismiss Mar- 
tha, or to return Mark to his family. But, instead of that, 
Martha daily gained in favor ; her mother spoke to her in 
the kindest tones, and her father seemed to take the great- 
est interest in her welfare. Little Mark was his constant 
companion, down at the counting-house, in the sitting-room, 
dining-room, and library ; he walked with him every morn- 
ing to Mass, sat beside him in the pew, knelt by his knee 
at night and said his prayers, and worse, oh, worse than 
all, the poor widow and Alfred and Ellen and Clara had 
been to see him, and had been kindly and graciously received 
by her parents. How wretched, how unhappy she was ! 
She saw the humblest, the lowliest, preferred before her, 
preferred by whom ? By her own parents. Jealousy and 
pride tugged at her heartstrings. Then she thought of 
Walter : would he, too, turn as easily from her ? Would 
he forget the loving past, and treat with indifference and 
contempt her every wish ? Would others usurp the place 
in his affections which only she should fill? Waves of 
jealousy swept over her soul, and a deathly pallor chased 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


155 


the roses from her cheek. Her father came forward, 
glanced a moment at the desk, and, approaching her, bent 
over and tenderly kissed her brow. 

“ Agnes, my dearest Agnes, why are you so estranged ? 
Look up, darling, and speak to your father.” 

Could she turn a deaf ear to that sorrowful voice ? could 
she slight that loving appeal ? The very fear, very proba- 
bility, that Walter might forget his love, almost paralyzed 
her soul with grief. Little Mark, father, mother, all were 
. merged in this one, great overwhelming fear. , She felt the 
need of sympathy, of support ; with a shudder she arose, 
threw her arms around her father’s neck, and hid her pale 
cheek on his shoulder. 

“ Agnes, my dear child, this estrangement has pained 
me — pained me past words to tell !” 

Still she did not speak ; it seemed her white lips had 
lost the power of articulation. 

He clasped her hand, and started back; ’twas icy-cold. 
In a voice of alarm he exclaimed : 

“ Dearest ! you are ill, let me lead you to the sofa — there 
now.” He had just reached the bell-rope, when she faintly 
said : 

“ Don’t, father ; don’t ring.” 

“ But you are not well, dearest, and your mother should 
know it.’’ 

“ No, father, no.” A frown contracted her brow, and, 
returning, he seated himself beside her. Again she laid 
her head on his shoulder, his kindness, their estrangement, 
the cause of it — all came over her, and she wept like a 
very child. He spoke soothing words; she did not 
reply to them, but still Sobbed on, and he thought the cold, 
proud spirit was at last subdued ; but, alas, it was not sub- 


156 


AGNES ; OR, 


mission, but exhaustion, not contrition, but mortified pride, 
that caused these tears and sobs. She raised her head 
from its resting-place ; twilight was fast coming on ; sha- 
dows were gathering around them. The grate sent out a 
fitful glare, that seemed to make the darkness all the more 
visible. The St. Agnes, by the piano, that always reminded 
her of her beautiful sister Rosie, now almost seemed as if 
it was Rosie’s self — darling angel Rosie — come back to 
soothe her in her loneliness ; her lips quivered ; she turned 
her head, and from the mantelpiece the meek, gentle 
Mater Dolorosa looked down so sorrowfully, so reproach- 
fully, upon her, that again she hid her face on her father’s 
shoulder. The gloom deepened ; carefully lifting her head, 
he. arose and lighted the gas. 

“ Darling !” he said, “ you look weary ; lie down, and I 
will send your mother to you.” 

He bent over her, once more kissed her pale brow, and 
left the room. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


151 


CHAPTER X. 

A FEW mornings after, as Agnes entered her room from 
the hreakfast-tahle, she saw on her desk a note addressed 
to her. It was from Edith Carter ; opening it, she read : 

“ Dear Agnes ^ — Why have you so long absented yourself 
from my sick-chamber ? Will you not come to your sick 
friend ? Edith.” 

“ I will,” she said, replacing the note in the envelope. 
She smoothed down the wavy folds of her hair, drew on 
a rich velvet cloak, put on her bonnet and gloves, and leav- 
ing orders for Terence to come for her with the carriage at 
six o’clock, was on her way to her sick friend. After a 
somewhat lengthened walk, she paused before a fine-looking 
residence, and, ascending the broad granite steps, rang the 
bell. Her summons was almost immediately answered, 
and the next instant found her in Edith’s room. It was now 
three weeks since she had seen her, and what a change that 
short time had wrought! She had had a slight recurrence 
of the hemorrhage, and although Agnes had heard that her 
lungs were very sore, and her cough worse, she did not 
expect to see her so feeble. 

“ Agnes !” exclaimed the invalid, slowly rising and com- 
inof forward to meet her, “ as I looked out of the window 
and saw the clear sky, and the glorious sunshine, I felt so 
lonely in my room, that I had to send for you.” 


158 


AGJfLlS; OR, 


Agnes stood for a moment g^'^zing upon her, then, draw- 
ing her to her heart, said: “Oh, Edith! you have been 
struggling with death ; I with the world 1” 

Astonished at the singularity of the expression, Edith 
fixed her large wondering eyes full upon her, and slowly 
repeated: “With the world, Agnes 1 with the world !” 

“Yes, Edith,” she brokenly replied ; then, holding her 
off, so as to scan her slight form, added : “ Ah I but death 
almost gained the victory, you are but a shadow of your 
former self.” 

A still greater pallor settled on her wan countenance, as 
she hoarsely remarked : “ Yes, Agnes, the walls of mor- 
tality are giving way.” 

Stooping, and tenderly kissing her, Agnes replied : “And, 
dearest, if they are, what is death* to one like you but a 
happy transition from a world of care to a world of bliss ?” 
Edith leaned heavily on her arm, while large drops stood 
on her forehead. 

“ You tremble, dear Edith; let me assist you to your 
chair.” She sank wearied ly into it, and Agnes wiped the 
moisture away. 

A quiet, gentle being was Edith, with deep piety pervad- 
ing her every thought, and it astonished Agnes that she 
should dread to die. If the deceitful pleasures of earth 
had enthralled her soul ; if the vanities of the world and 
the homage of society had engrossed her mind, then might 
Agnes not have been surprised that now she should shrink 
back from the narrow and contracted prison of the grave. 
But Edith’s hopes had long been pointed to heaven. A 
deep sorrow had early fallen upon her that showed her the 
nothingness of life. Soon after leaving school, her iifi*ec' 
tions had been gained by one whose worth promised her 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


159 


an unusual sliare of happiness. She loved him Avith all 
the ardor of her young, trusting heart. Already was the 
fame of his talents bruited abroad ; she trembled with de- 
light as she read the high encomiums pronounced upon 
them, and felt how worthily they were bestowed. And 
she Avas to be hi^ wife ! the one to lighten his toil and 
make pleasant his home ! Her cheek glowed with happy 
anticipations, and she looked forward to vistas in the future, 
opening joyously upon her. It lacked but one short week, 
and they were to be united ; jewels were bought, cards sent 
out, every preparation made ; but, in the midst of all he 
Avas stricken doAvn with a fever, and the day that was to have 
witnessed their nuptials saw him consigned to the grave. 
It Avas a severe blow to Edith, one that she well-nigh sunk 
under ; but, rallying after the first few days of abandon- 
ment and grief, she strove to bear her trial Avith the resig- 
nation of a Christian. In the strict practice of her religion 
she sought and found a balm for her Avounded spirit ; she 
became an angel of mercy to the suffering poor, and the 
jrentle and beautiful Edith Avas better known in the homes 
of poverty and sorroAV than in the halls of fashion and 
wealth. Two years before, she accompanied her parents to 
Europe. She Ausited Rome, saAv all the wonders of that 
“ City of the Soul AA^as in the presence of the Father of 
the faithful,- he to Avhom the care of the Avhole flock is con- 
fided, received his blessing, and more than ever longing for 
heaven and loathing the pleasures of earth, she prepared 
to accompany her parents on their return home. In Paris 
they stopped, intending to stay a feAV days, and there she 
Avas taken violently ill Avith hemorrhage from the lungs; 
for a long time she lingered, but at last got able to recross 
the ocean. Agnes, with whom she constantly corresponded, 


160 


AGNES ; OR, 


was informed of all the particulars of her sickness, and she 
thought how rejoiced will dear Edith be tq join her aflS- 
anced in another and better world. But, when she saw 
her, it was with pain and surprise she perceived, that as 
death appeared at hand, the gentle and pious Edith shrank 
back with terror at his approach. How*Could she go into 
the presence of her Lord to be judged ? The world called 
her good, but how did she know whether her actions had 
been performed in the true spirit of piety or not? Was it 
to please God, or to fly from bitter thought, that she went 
among the poor, and tried to relieve their siifterings? 
Did she shun the salons of fashion through self-denial, or 
because she took no pleasure in them ? Did she frequent 
the sacraments in obedience to the commands of the 
Church, or because she found in them a sensible delight ? 
Poor Edith ; fear and trembling seized upon her soul, and 
she who had led so exemplary a life wept at the approach 
of death. Agnes was in wonder at it. She had read how 
the saints rejoice when the moment of their release draws 
near, and why should Edith, whose life so much resembled 
theirs, be filled with fear? Her earthly happiness had 
been blighted, why then should she not rather rejoice to 
die, to go to that blessed land where, with the loved one gone 
before, she would forever bask in the sunshine of God’s 
holy presence, away from sorrow, away from sin ? Ah ! this 
dread ; this fear was one more trial the gentle Edith had to 
suffer before going to her rest. Sometimes, at the thought 
of the awful moment of dissolution, a cold perspiration 
would bathe' her whole body ; in a low, wailing voice she 
would cry : “ In this very room shall I be judged. Here 
shall my eternal lot be apportioned to me !” Then bowino* 
her face upon her hands, the hot tears would wash through 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


161 


her attenuated fingers. But God is faithful, he permits not ■ 
his servants to be tempted above their strength. At such 
moments of utter desolation, thoughts of her loving Saviour, 
and all he had suftered to open heaven for man, would 
rush upon her ; confidence would return to her heart, a 
revulsion would come over her feelings, and no longer 
■ dreading, she would long to die, to go to that blessed 
Saviour. 

“ Edith Agnes spoke, in her kindest tones, “ did you 
resign all hopes of recovery from the first of this sickness ?” 

“ Agnes, I did. Mother, and father, and sister Bertha 
tried to change my mind, but the painful shortness of the 
breath, and the ever-constant pain in my side, told me too 
plainly of the grave to be deceived. Although I have all 
along known it, and struggled — struggled, oh ! so hard, to 
be resigned ; still, at times, so great a dread of the grave — 
no, Agnes, not the grave ; I know I am not to be there, 
only the frail body — but, so great a dread of going, with 
all my imperfections, into the presence of my Judge, that 
I am afraid — I tremble. In the language of Job, I ask : 

‘ What shall I do when God shall rise to judge me ? and 
when he shall examine, what shall I answer ? ’ She leaned 
her head against the back of her chair, and tears coursed 
down her wasted cheeks. 

“And, dearest Edith,” said Agnes, gently taking her 
hand, “ don’t you, at other times, feel perfectly willing to 
gor’ . ^ ^ ^ 

“Yes,” she feebly replied, with closed eyes, “wait till I 
rest, and then I will tell you all about it.” 

“ Would you not rest better on the sofa ?” 

“ I believe I would ; and, if you please, you may get 


* Job, xxxi. 14. 


162 


AGNES ; OE, 


me a pillow from my bed, and the quilt on the chair be- 
side it.” Agnes got the pillow and quilt, and settled the 
invalid so comfortably, that, with a sigh of relief, she said : 

“ Now, indeed, shall I rest. Ah ! dear Agnbs, what a 
kind hand you have around the sick.” 

Agnes bent over her, and kissed her brow. “ Edith !” 
she exclaimed; while tears sprang to her dark eyes, “ what 
would I not do if I could only ease you of your pain !” 

“ I know, Agnes, how generous you are, and may God 
bless yon, and give you that best of gifts, an humble and 
pious heart.” 

Agnes’s long lashes drooped ; turning away, she made 
no reply. 

Edith released her pearl rosary from the cord of her 
robe,, signed herself with -the sign of the cross, fervently 
kissed the crucifix, and closed her eyes. Agnes sat look- 
ing at the thin lips, the sunken cheeks and marble brow, 
with its delicate tracery of blue veins ; and she thought 
how soon would the gentle being before her be hid from 
her sight in the cold, dark grave ; then glancing round the 
room, she mentally exclaimed : “ How desolate will it be 
when she is gone. Not only her friends, but her books, 
her pictures, the very sofa on which she is lying, the chairs 
about the room — all will seem lone without her ! What is 
life ? a dream — a vision — we are here to-day, to-morrow 
passed away !” She bowed her face upon her hands, and 
her thoughts insensibly wandered from her sick friend to 
little Mark, her curly-headed adopted brother, and kind 
feelings for awhile gained the ascendency of pride. At 
length Edith opened her eyes, and, fixing them on her, 
quietly observed : 

“Before the couch of death pride drops its gorgeous 
trappings, and appears in all its real deformity.” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


ic:i 

A^nes started, and the blood mantled her cheek. • 

“ I was thinking,” resumed Edith, raising herselfto a sitting 
posture, “ that it was the sight of the dead body of the 
Empress Isabella of Spain which first opened St. Francis 
Borgia’s eyes , to the noliiingness of worldly pomp and 
grandeur. Pride then appeared to him in all its real de- 
formity. He saw how little wealth, dignity, and station 
avail when death comes.” 

♦ 

Agnes knew not what to say in reply ; she felt ill at ease, 
and lest her uneasiness might be- observed, she chose to 
remain silent. The distant murmur from the streets below 
came up like the restless beating of the sea against the 
rock-bound shore. And has man, she thought, from the 
creation, been ever the same busy, restless being? In the 
ages past, did the same passions urge him on ? Did envy, 
pride, desire of fame, and love of pleasure exert the same 
influence over him that they do to-day ? She could not 
doubt it. History, ruins, dating back to another time 
and race, told her it was so. And how long will the strug- 
gle last ? How long shall the ceaseless tide of humanity 
beat against the crumbling walls of time? Her reflections 
were interrupted by Edith’s again addressing her. 

“ Agnes, I promised, when I had rested, to tell you of 
God’s great mercy to me. You asked, did I dread all the 
time to die? I tell you no. No!” she exclaimed, while a 
radiant glow lit up her wan countenance, and she folded her 
transparent hands over her breast; “Like the disciples at 
sea, when the storm rages wild round me, and darkness 
envelops me, and the waves threaten to ingulf me, fright- 
ened and dismayed, I rush into the inner chamber of my 
heart, and throwing myself at the feet of my blessed 
Saviour, cry : ‘ Lord save me, I perish 1’ and rising, he com- 
mands the winds and the waves ; they all rush back ; dark- 


164 


AGNES ; OR, 


ness .retreats; and, lo! a great calm ensues, and, witii the 
Psalmist, I cry out : ‘ The Lord is my help, and my salva- 
tion, whom lihall I fear ?’ Oh, Agues ! Agnes ! death has 
no power over me then ; on the contrary, I long to go — 
to be released from this prison-l^use of clay ; and so grea"* 
is this longing, that with St. Teresa I pray : 

‘Ah, Lord ! my light, my living breath! 

Take me, oh, take me, from this death. 

And burst the bars that sever me 
From my true life above. 

Think how I die thy face to see 
And cannot live away from thee. 

Oh, my eternal love ! 

■’ But ever, ever weep and sigh. 

Dying because I do not die.’ ”* 

She ceased ; her hands were tightly clasped ; her eyes, 
brilliant with celestial light, were raised with so eager an 
expression, that Agnes sank upon the carpet, and threw her 
arms around her, as if to detain her. 

“ Oh, Edith ! Edith !” she sobbed, “ don’t leave us, 
don’t.” 

Edith unclasped her hands, and looking in her face, with 
touching sadness said : “ Dearest, I cannot go when I please, 
^ but must patiently wait the hour of my deliverance.” 

Both were silent for some time ; at length Edith ex- 
claimed : “ Agnes ! rise, I beg you.” Agnes seemed not 
to hear the request, and again was it repeated. With a 
pale, tearless countenance she arose, but did not speak. 

Deep thoughts were stirred ; would she bo as happy when 
death came to her? Edith was several years older than 
Agnes, but those years would fly swiftly ; and then, if she 

' * Translated by the Rev. Father CaswelL 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


165 


should be called to go, would she be as well prepared ? 
What brought that reproachful pang, w^hen Edith spoke of 
pride? Was it pride, or only asserting her just rights, her 
objecting to having little Mark’s family hanging round ? 
The cold glance returned to her eye, and with it the resent- 
ful feeling to her heart. She left Edith’s side, and seated 
herself at the table. 

“You have some exquisite drawings here,” she said. 

“Yes; they are some Bertha selected. You can look 
them over at your leisure, and if you wish to copy from 
any, they are at your service.” 

“ Thank you, Edith ; I have not copied all those you so 
kindly brought me yet ; here is one I would like to take 
home.” 

“ Which one is it ?” 

“ ‘ The Bride of Christ ; or, taking the veil.’ The nuns, 
what sweet faces they have ; and the young postulant, how- 
beautiful she looks in her bridal array. But, she is going 
to lay it aside forever. See, at her right hand is the sim- 
ple white band that is to encircle her fair smooth brow, 
and the coarse dark robe that is to clothe her delicate form; 
in front of her is the long black veil. Oh ! what a heav- 
enly smile is on her face ; she doesn’t mind giving up the 
world ; she is taking heaven in exchange. Do you know,” 
she exclaimed, looking eagerly up from the drawing, “ I 
always thought that you would be a nun !” 

“What made you think so, Agnes?” 

“ I don’t know ; but I suppose it was your gentle, quiet 
ways, and the tone of piety which pervaded your whole 
mind. When we were at the dear Sisters’, I used to say to 
myself: ‘ E<lith is just like them ; she will never leave them, 
she will become one of them;’ and when you returned 
home, and a different report was brought to me, I could 


166 


AGNES ; OE, 


hardly credit it at first. No, no ; it was- a mistake ; it 
could not be ; but, when every thing confirmed its truth, then 
I felt grieved, disappointed. I was busy with my books ; 
for you recollect I had two or three years of hard study 
before me when you left school, at the time the news 

came She suddenly checked herself, but Edith 

said : 

“ Go on, Agnes, dear ; it does not pain me now to hear 
you refer to those days.” 

“ I was thoughtless, dearest ; forgive me, I will change 
the conversation.” 

“ No, Agnes, do not ; go on ; what were you going to 
say ?” 

“ That when the news came of Jerome Power’s death, 
I said : ‘ Now, surely will Edith come back to the Sisters.’ 
I left school ; I saw you shunning society ; leading in the 
world the life of a religious, and I wondered my expectations 
were not realized.” 

“ Dear Agnes !” it seemed an angel note thrilled Edith’s 
voice, it was so sweet, “ from the time of Jerome’s death I 
did resolve on becoming a Sister. The world was nothing 
more to nae ; but I must wait till the image of the beloved 
was effaced from my heart. I dared not present to God 
affections sullied by earthly love. The bride of heaven 
must be wholly, not partly devoted to her spouse. In that 
little drawer,” she pointed to the bureau, “ are the jewels 
I was to have worn that day — you know the day I refer 
to ?” 

“Yes, dearest; I do.” 

“ Well, beside them are the letters he wrote me, his por- 
trait and a lock of his hair ; these I could not look at with- 
out Tecling all my sorrow renewed, and I knew as long as 
this remained the old love was not gone. When I went to 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


167 


Europe, I took all but the jewels with me. Although I 
could not look at them, still I could not bear to leave therr 
behind— they must go with me. I mentioned it to mother, 
and she kindly took them* out, and packed them in my 
trunk. In Rome, one day, feeling more than usually de- 
pressed, I knelt before the great altar, in St. Peter’s, and 
fervently prayed that God would give me grace to be re- 
signed to his holy will ; that I might think less of my suf- 
fering, w'hen it all at once occurred to me how little had I 
suffered in comparison to my blessed Saviour. I thought 
of the bloody sweat in the garden, the head crowned with 
thorns, the cruel stripes, the hands and feet pierced with 
nails — all, all for me ! Oh ! who had ever loved me like 
my God ? Whose love could compare to his ? I fell pros- 
trate before the altar, and while the aching feeling left my 
heart, I realized why the saints rejoice in the midst of the 
greatest persecutions — they are suffering for the God who 
suffered for them ! What joy, what happiness, to be able 
to make some little return ! Gratitude thrilled my whole 
being ; the old love was forgotten ; I was free. I could 
offer to God my undivided affections ; I was all his. Be- 
fore leaving the church, I said a little prayer for the repose 
of Jerome’s soul, and, on my return to our lodgings, took 
out my casket and gazed unmoved upon its contents. 
With a determination, as soon as I reached home, to dedi- 
cate the remainder of my life to God, I went with father, 
mother, and Bertha to Paris. They intended to stay only 
a few days, but I was impatient ; I longed for the moment 
when I could bid adieu forever to the world ; a lassitude 
was stealing over my frame, and I feared something would 
happen to disappoint me. That something did happen ; 
sickness came upon me, and I knew I was soon to die. 
Oh, Agnes ! then it was the sinfulness of my repinings all 


108 


AGNES ; OE, 




arose before me. God had called me to be his — -I held 
back — and when I came forward, he would not receive me.’' 
Tears bathed her cheeks ; bowing her head, she covered 
her face with her hands. 

“ Dear Edith !” said Agnes, kindly, “ don’t cry ; you 
were chosen to join the community of saints above, to be 
the spouse of Christ in heaven, where death can never 
more afflict you.” 

“ Afflict me, Agnes ! oh, if I had only resigned myself to 
the will of God, it would never have afflicted me. It was 
not death, but my own rebellious heart which had made 
me suffer.” Her voice was tremulous with sobs. 

“ Edith ! Edith ! this is rebelling again. Submit your- 
self to God, and you have nothing to fear. Here, let me 
read to you out of this little book. I know you love it, 
for I see in it many marked passages.” It was St. Liguori, 
“ On the Love of Jesus Christ,” and she read from it till the 
mind of the invalid was calmed and relieved. As she closed 
the volume she said : 

“ Now, Edith ; I will arrange your pillows again, and 
with these words in your ears, you must try to take some 
sleep.” 

“ I will, Agnes, I will. Like the lullaby which soothed 
us in our infancy, they speak of protective kindness, and 
endearing love. Can a child in its mother’s arms know 
fear ? Can a Christian, surrounded by the love of God, 
distrust his salvation? No, no, Agnes; fear and distrust 
shall be cast out : ^ In peace, in the selfsame, I will rest, 
and I will sleep.’ ” 

Agnes spread the quilt over her, smoothed the sunny 
hair from her brow, tenderly kissed her cheek, and reseated 
herself at the table. She had looked over nearly all the 
drawings, when Mrs. Carter softly opened the door, and 

/ 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


169 


came in. There was between the mother and daughter 
a great resemblance ; the same slight form and delicate 
complexion ; the same breadth of brow and eyes of heavenly 
blue, shaded by long silken lashes. She affectionately 
greeted Agnes, and in a whisper asked : 

.“How long has dear Edith been sleeping?” 

“ About an hour and a half.” 

“ Has she coughed much ?” 

“ No, Mrs. Carter ; I have not heard her cough at all. 
Does she cough much in the day?” 

“No, dear; but sometimes she coughs so at night that 
she can take no rest. Last night I don’t think she closed 
her eyes.” 

“ Poor, poor Edith ! and she never mentioned it to me.” 

“ No ; she never speaks of her sufferings to any one. I 
heard her, or I should not have known it. But, dear Agnes, 
come with me down to the parlors, I fear our whispering 
will disturb her. Johana will sit by her side, and when 
she awakens we will return.” Mrs. Carter cast a lingering 
look of affection on the invalid, and led the way out. 

In the parlor she talked of their late tour, but Agnes was 
abstracted. At any other time she would have listened with 
pleasure to the graphic descriptions Mrs. Carter gave of all 
she had seen abroad ; but Edith’s sickness had brought up 
thoughts which clashed with the idol passion of her heart. 
These thoughts must be battled with ; self-love must be 
soothed and flattered. Was she proud ? No, she w^as only 
just ; some people let piety warp their minds, and through 
fear of offending in one point, offend in andther. If it is 
wrong to have grades in society, why have grades always 
existed? Why is one a prince, another a peasant? Why 
is one born to serve, another to be served ? It is for the 
good of the whole ; by it order is maintained, and society 
8 ’ 


170 


AGNES ; OX?, 


preserved. Should hers be the daring hand to help tear 
down the barrier separating one from the other? No; she 
would adhere to her first resolution ; reason and common 
sense told her it was right. Pity her reason and common 
sense did not lead her a little farther, or rather that piety 
did not enlighten them, then she would have known that, 
as the different grades go to form one great body politic, 
so it is necessary a fraternal bond of charity should exist 
among them all. Should the eye despise the hand because 
it cannot see ? Should the hand despise the eye, because, 
seeing, it cannot take hold of and possess? 

It was after dinner that they were recalled to Edith’s 
room. Johana was taking a salver out as they entered. 

“ Dearest, did you enjoy your meal ?” asked Mrs. Carter, 
drawing up a chair, and seating herself near her. 

“Yes, mother; the toast and egg were excellent, and the 
grapes very fine ; they came so opportunely, too, just before 
dinner. Agnes, you must carry home my thanks to your 
mother foy her kind present.” Edith, of course, knew not 
how matters just then stood between Agiles and her mother, 
and thought the commission would be a pleasant one. 
Without saying whether she would do it or not, Agnes 
asked her how she felt on wakinof. 

“Rested, greatly rested; and now, Agnes, will you grant 
me another favor ?” 

“ Certainly, Edith, if it is in my power. What is it ?” 

“ It is to play for me ‘ Bright Mother of our Maker, 
Hail.’ You know we used to sing it every evening at the 
dear Sisters’.” 

“Yes, I remember.” Agnes seated herself at the melo- 
deon ; and as she sang the lines, her happy school-days, the 
study room, with its long row of well-filled desks, the Sis- 
tep and pupils, all came so vividly before her, that she 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


ni 

forgot the lapse of time. Edith was well, her voice and the 
voices of a hundred more joined hers in that fervent invoca- 
tion to the Virgin Mother of God. The air finished, she 
arose from the instrument and seated herself near the win- 
dow. The door opened, and Mrs. Carter was summoned 
to the parlor. 

Edith, observing a great gravity had settled on Agnes’s 
face, was about asking her the cause of it, when she impa- 
tiently exclaimed : 

“ I love ‘ Bright Mother,’ there is something so simple, 
so childlike about it, and yet I can never sing it without 
feeling sad.” 

“ Why, Agnes ?” 

“ Because every thing around me is so changed. I was 
happy then.” Edith looked earnestly at her, and asked : 

“ Agnes, are you net happy now ?” 

“ Happy, Edith ; sometimes I think I am other times I 
know I am not. If you should ask what caused my un- 
happiness I should not be able to tell you. I said every 
thing was changed, but nothing is so changed as myself. 
What constituted my happiness then, does not constitute 
it now.” 

“ Dear Agnes ; can you tell what constituted it then ?” 

“Yes, Edith; easy enough. A letter from home, well- 
learned lessons, and approving smiles from the dove-eyed 
Sisters. Ah ! how light my heart was ; how little it took 
to make it happy !” 

Edith laid her head on her hand, and reflected awhile. 
“I see,” she- said, “how it was. A strict performance of 
your duties made you happy ; neglecting them you would 
have been wretched. Children and grown people, in this 
respect, differ not so much. Irksome tasks are placed be- 
fore the child ; he is told he must accomplish them ; sub- 


1V2 


AGNES ; OE, 


mitting his will to others, he toils on, succeeds, and happi- 
ness crowns his labor. And why is he happy ? Because he 
performed his duties. How did he peiform them ? By obey- 
ing. Why did he obey ? Because he was humble. And 
here, Agnes, is the secret of a ehild’s happiness — its hu- 
mility. If man, in after years, would be as humble as the 
child, he would as faithfully perform his duties, and, per- 
forming them, be just as happy.” 

“ But, Edith, if asked in mature years to countenance a 
positive wrong, would it be right for us to do so ?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ Would it be pride in us to refuse ?” 

“ Again I repeat, certainly not. We would not be per- 
forming our duty to consent to wrong ; but, at the same 
time, w^e should not, through an obstinate pride, object to 
what is right, simply because it is offensive to onr tastes. 
There are many things which may be disagreeable to us, 
which self-love may incline us to shun — such as coming in 
contact with the poor, living in humble style, when our 
means calls us to it, instead of madly striving to follow 
after our wealthier neighbors ; being kind and amiable to 
all, even to those for whom we may feel an aversion, cheer- 
fully fulfilling the duties of our station— all these, like the 
child’s task, may be irksome, but by performing them, like 
the child, we are happy.” 

Agnes was silent, and Edith said no more. She was too 
well acquainted with her friend not to be aware of her 
ruling passion. Having heard all about the adoption, she 
knew her proud, imperious nature would rebel against 
Martha being retained in their service after Mark had be- 
come a member of their family. Through delicacy of feel- 
ing she had refrained from speaking on the subject. Agnes 
was of a reflective turn, and she thought a few suggestions 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


173 


about pride might work on her mind, and leave an impres- 
sion of good. To her friends, those whom she considered 
her equals in intellect and station, she was kind and affec- 
tionate; to all others, cold and repulsive. The poor, 
the vain and superficial, she ranked in the one class; if 
the poor rose, they formed the vain, superficial part of 
society ; if the vain and superficial sunk to poverty, they 
showed, in their total want of real refinement, the condi- 
tion of those to whom they were justly levelled. Like 
“ the comet of a thousand years,” there might be, now and 
then, a gifted one from among them, but it was the excep- 
tion, not the general rule. As her father said, she was 
deeply proud at heart, yet all the time she flattered herself 
that she was only just. “ I dislike the soulless butterflies 
fluttering about the flame of fashion ; and, because I candidly 
express my feelings, the sanctified raise their hands and 
exclaim : ‘ Behold her pride !’ I hate the sycophancies of 
the poor, and their everlasting trying to edge themselves 
into notice; and, because, with no false covering of my 
sentiments, I let th§m see that I do, I am pointed out as 
one devoid of every particle of generosity — utterly hard- 
ened. They are so humble, make so many fine speeches, 
and are so charitable, that while astonished at their own 
goodness, they daily thank God they are not so great 
sinners as I. Well, never mind ; let them have their 
way ; let them think as they please ; I shall not waste ray 
breath contending with them, I shall just go on in the 
same way in which I have begun.” Her brow contract- 
ed into a frown, and glancing out of the window, she saw 
with satisfaction', that Terence, punctual to orders, had 
come for her. 

“ Edith ;” she said, “ I must go now.” 

“ Has the carriage come ?” 


174 


AGNES ; OE, 


“Yes. Johana, I believe, left my things in the next 
room.” 

“ Wait a moment, Agnes ; I will ring for her.” 

“ No, no ; I can get them myself just as well.” 

She got them, and was drawing on her cloak, when 
Edith said ; “ Agnes, you. have been very kind to come 
and stay with me to-day. You will come again, will you 
not ?” 

“Yes, Edith; whenever you wish to see me, you have 
only to send me word, and I will hasten to you. I would 
come unbidden at any time, but it might weary you ; there- 
fore, I propose waiting till I am sent for.” 

“ How generous and thoughtful you are, Agnes ! I will 
never forget it !” 

“You are surprised, because you expected no good in 
me.” There was a hard, disagreeable smile about her 
mouth as she said this. 

“ No, Agnes, no ; I never had any reason to think so. 
You have always been kind and affectionate to me, and our 
old school friendship you have never forgotten.” 

Referring to her school-days always touched a tender 
spot in Agnes’s memory ; bowing her head, the long, dark 
ringlets fell over her face, and hid the tears that rushed to 
her eyes. In a moment, regaining her composure, she 
threw her arms round Edith, and drew her to her heart. 
She had reached the door, when Edith exclaimed : 

“ The drawing you wished to take home you are forget- 
ting.” 

“ Sure enough ; it had quite escaped my mind. When 
shall I return it ?” 

“ Keep it as long as you please.” Edith stood with her 
hand leaning on the marble table, and she looked so pure 
and holy, so ethereal, that Agnes thought, surely she is 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


175 


ripening for heaven ; no unkind sentiment sullied her soul. 
After a riveted gaze, she exclaimed : 

“ Dearest Edith, you are truly good. I believe from the 
bottom of my heart, you entertain no uncharitable feeling 
for any living creature.” 

“•Why should I, Agnes ? God loves them all.” 

“Yes, I know; but all are not like you. Once more 
good-bye.” She caught her hand, pressed it, and hurried 
away. In the carriage she tried to feel at ease, but there 
was a restlessness about her she could not quiet. “ Being 
with the sick al] day has made me nervous,” she exclaimed. 
With an impatient movement of her hand she opened the 
carriage window, and glanced out on the thronged street. 
Poverty and wealth she saw jostling together ; there was 
the well-dressed lady, the poor seamstress and servant-girl, 
the man of business and the laborer — all hurrying on, each 
intent on his own affairs ; and, what had she to do ? What 
was her portion in the great struggle of life ? Edith’s course 
was almost run ; was she nearing the end of hers ? If she 
should die, would she be missed ? Where were the throngs 
of the year before ? Were they all there ? No ; many had 
passed away. Did they leave a vacancy behind ? No ; the 
street was just as crowded. She might go, and they would 
not know it. What was she but an atom, and yet atoms 
go to form the whole. She closed the window, and drew 
the veil over her face. She would have been satisfied could* 
she as easily shut out thought; but no, it was busy — busy, 
gnawing into her very soul. “ I am wretched !” she ex- 
claimed, pressing her hand to her forehead ; “ like Saul, I 
must have music to calm this terrible feeling that has 
come over me.” Reaching home, she met her father and 
mother in the hall ; but, without saying a word to either, 
she ascended the stairs, and hastened to her room. 


CHAPTER XL 


A MONTH passed away before Becky was called upon to 
renew the subject of religion with her grandparents. It 
was in the evening that she was summoned to their room. 

“ Becky,” said grandmother, pointing her to be seated 
near her and grandfather, “ we have carefully read the 
books you gave us.” 

“And, dear grandmother, in them you have found a 
fuller explanation of the four marks of the Church than in 
a conversation I could possibly give.” 

“We have, child^ we have,” said grandfather; “and we 
see these marks are absolutely necessary to prove the 
Church of Christ. Without unity, how could it faithfully 
preserve the doctrine it had received ? Without sanctity, 
what worth would that doctrine be ? Without catholicity, 
or universality, how could it be the Church, whose limits 
w’as th^ whole world ? Without apostolicity, or a regular 
succession of pastors, how could it be able to prove its 
descent from the apostles? No, child, these four marks, 
« unity, sanctity, catholicity, and apostolicity, are so essential, 
tliat a Church lacking them can have no claim whatever to 
being the Church of Christ.” The old man took off his 
spectacld^, and laid them on a table beside a volume he 
had been reading. 

“ Becky,” he abruptly asked, “ do you recollect a re- 
mark I made in the sitting-room on Christmas Eve ?” 

“ What was it, grandfather ?” 


VIEWS OF CATnOLICITT. 


177 


“ Why, mother said something,about her eyes being dim, 
and I remarked that while the eyes of the body had grown 
dim, the eyes of the soul had been opened.” 

“ Oh, yes, grandfather, I remember it well, and a great 
joy it brought to my heart.” 

“ It need not, child, it need not. No joy did it bring to 
us.” 

“ Why, grandfather?” Becky looked up surprised. 

“ Because we thought before we were in safety, and con- 
sequently for ourselves we feared not, but then our eyes 
were opened to know that dangers surrounded us on all 
sides. That which we had trusted in was a false light, an 
ignis fatuus ; and into what marshes was it leading us. I 
tremble, child, when I think of it.” The word infidelity” 
escaped his lips, when, starting up, he exclaimed : 

“ Child, we had read the arguments by which each sect 
attempts to prove itself the Church of Christ, and how 
unsatisfactory we found them ; nothing real,nothing sound ; 
all inconsistent, all chaffy, and forming a most insufficient 
food for the eager, hungry mind. In fact, after all our 
reading we closed the volumes with the conviction that 
their whole aim was not so much to substantiate their own, 
as to disprove the Catholic’s claim. And why do they all 
vent their spleen against this particular ''Church? A 
modern Babel in multiplicity and confusion of creeds, why 
are they so united in hatred to this ?” 

Because, grandfather, split up into a thousand frag- 
ments, teaching doctrines they find necessary to be con- 
tinually changing and mending, confined to very inferior 
numbers, unheard of till the sixteenth century, they know 
they can have no claim, not even the shadow of a claim, 
to being the Church of Christ. Not so the Catholic, they 
know — and for this they hate it — that it can date back to 
8 * 


178 


AGNES ; OR, 


the foundation of Christianity ; that it is the Church 
which overcame the pagan world, that is by far the most 
widely extended on the face of the earth, and that, being 
under one head, one government, its unity is unbroken. 
Its unity, universality, apostolicity they cannot deny, be- 
cause it is public to the world. Nothing is left them but 
its doctrine, and in t^eir blind hatred they rush upon it 
with every slanderous weapon they can lay hold of.” 

“Doctrine, child, it is on this point we wish now to 
speak. Doubtless you think from the books you have 
given us, Milner’s ‘ End of Religious Controversy,’ ‘ Faith 
of Catholics,’ and Challoner’s ‘ Catholic Christian,’ we 
could find out all about it ourselves, but we are all weary 
with reading, and would rather listen awhile to you ; then, 
when we turn to them, it will be pleasant to have the 
memory of your words going with us.” 

“Yes, dear grandfather and grandmother; but, like the 
four marks, I will not be able to treat them so fully as you 
will afterwards see them treated.” She sat with her hands 
folded on her lap, looking up with a calm, peaceful coun- 
tenance, and her voice was so sweetly attuned that they 
forgot their deafness and drank in with avidity her every 
word. Grandfather’s hands rested qn the arms of his chair, 
and his eyes were bent keenly, searchingly upon her. 
Grandmother’s countenance was equally anxious but not 
so troubled. 

“ When we went to Church on Christmas,” said grand- 
father, “ we saw that which appeared to us strange and 
unaccountable — the lights burning in the daytime, the dress 
of the priest, and the different language of the ritual. The 
reason for this last, in speaking of the unity of the Church, 
you have explained to us.” 

“And, grandfather, does it now look inconsistent?” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


179 


“ No, Becky, it does not. In fact, for a religion that is 
to last to the end of time, to extend to all nations, it would, 
viewed from a merely human point, strike us as a wonderful 
instance of worldly wisdom and foresight. What better 
means could be adopted for the perfect preservation of the 
faith than a language which is not in common use, and 
which, therefore, is not subject to the continual changes of a 
common language ; and what could better conduce to unity 
of worship, for, as you justly remarked, let one professing 
the faith be cast on whatever part of the habitable globe 
he might, he is. able, by this very means, to join his brethren 
in worship. Every part he understands, the language is 
not strange to him, for it is the one in which he has al- 
ways heard the service performed. Oh, child, the expla- 
nation of this one point has opened to our eyes the grandest 
stroke of policy we ever saw, ever heard of.” 

“ Grandfather, it is more than human, it is divine wisdom 
which governs and directs it, Christ promised to be with 
it all days, even to the end of the world that the Holy 
Ghost, the Spirit of truth, should abide with it forever, 
teaching it all things ; and as in this so in eveiy other point, 
you will see it indued with a wisdom above the wisdom 
and understanding of man. What else has enabled it to 
withstand the storms which, for eighteen bun 1 red years, 
have beat against it? It was built upon a firm foundation, 
and the arm of the Omnipotent supports it on every side,” 

“Well, child,” said grandfather, “without any more 
digression, will you tell us the meaning of the lighted 
candles on the altar?” 

“It is, grandfather, to denote the light of faith with 
which we should approach it, and to express our joy for the 


180 


AGNES ; OR, 


glorious triumpli of our Lord, commemorated in tlie sacri- 
fice there offered up.” 

“ Sacrifice, Becky, that is a word which, in reading the 
four marks of the Church from those hooks you gave us, 
we frequently saw, and it struck us as something very 
strange, something quite uncalled for. Was not Christ’s 
sacrifice on Calvary an all -atoning sacrifice ? What need of 
any other?” 

“ Grandfather, it is no other ; it is the same sacrifice of- 
fered up in an unbloody manner.” 

“ But, being once offered up, what need of offering it up 
again ?” 

“ That we may have in the sacrifice of the altar a stand- 
ing memorial of the death of Christ ; that by the sacrifice 
of the altar the fruit of his death may be daily applied to 
our souls ; that his children may have, to the end of the 
world, an external sacrifice, in which they may join togeth- 
er in the outward worship of religion, as the servants of 
God from the beginning of the world had always done ; and 
that in and by this sacrifice they may unite themselves 
daily with their high-priest and victim, Christ Jesus, and 
daily answer the four ends of sacrifice.”^ 

“ Well, Becky, first tell us what these four ends are, and 
then how the Mass, as you call it, is a sacrifice.” 

“ As to the ends, grandfather, first, for God’s own honor 
and glory ; second, in thanksgiving for all his blessings, 
conferred on us through Jesus Christ, our Lord ; thirdly, 
in satisfaction for our sins through his blood ; fourthly, for 
obtaining grace, and all necessary blessings from God.f 
These, grandfather and grandmother, are the four ends for 

* Challoner’s “ Catholic Christian,” p. 94. 
f “ Grounds of Catholic Doctrine,” p. 64. 


VIETTS OF CATHOLICITT. 


181 


whicli sacrifice is offered up ; and now, to prove that the 
Mass is a sacrifice, we must first prove that Christ insti- 
tuted a sacrifice, and then if what is offered up on our 
altars be in accordance with that institution.” She arose, 
took the Bible from the mantelpiece, and, returning to her 
seat, opened and turned to Luke xxii. 

“ Before you read, tell us, Becky, is that our Bible or 
yours ?” 

She knew her grandparents would prefer their own, and 
therefore bad chosen theirs. 

“ It is yours, grandmother,” she replied, “ and in it we 
find our Saviour on the eve of his passion, verse 19, bless- 
ing bread, breaking it, and giving it to his disciples, saying : 

‘ This is my body, which is given for you : do this in re- 
membrance of me;’ likewise the cup. after supper, saying: 

‘ This cup is the New Testament in my blood, which is 
shed for you.’ Our version has it : ‘ This is my body which 
is given for you : Do this in commemoration of me.’ In 
like manner the chalice also, after he had supped, saying : 

* This is the chalice, the New Testament in my blood, which 
shall be shed for you.’ In chapter xxvi., verse 26, of Mat- 
thew, and chapter xiv., verses 22, 23, and 24, oL Mark, 
we see a confirmation of this given even in stronger terms. 
Here, in speaking of the bread, after blessing and breaking 
it, he says : ‘ Take, eat ; this is my body,’ and of the cup, 

‘ Drink ye all of it ; for this is ray blood t)f the New Testa- 
ment, which is shed for many for the remission of sin.’ 
Here, grandfather and grandmother, we see the disciples 
partaking in a mystical manner of his body and blood ; 
mind, in speaking of the blood, he does not say it is a figure 
or type, but that it is his body, and he further orders them 
to do .it in commemoration of him ; or, as your Bible has 
it, in remembrance of him. And of the chalice or cup, he 


182 


AGNES ; OE, 


says : ‘ This is my blood of the New Testament, which is 
shed for many for the remission of sins.’ The Old Testa- 
ment was dedicated with the blood of lambs, oxen, and 
goats ; the New, with the blood of Christ here mystically 
shed. And in Psalms, cix. in ours, and cx. in yours, our 
Lord, speaking of Christ, in the most emphatic manner 
declares him to be a priest forever according to the order 
of Melchizedeck. Turn to Genesis, xiv. 8, and we find 
that Mechizedeck’s offering was bread and wine ; so Christ’, 
in offering himself mystically under the form and ap- 
pearance of bread and wine, changing that bread and 
wine into his body and blood, soul and divinity, is a priest 
forever, according to the order of Melchizedeck. In Mala- 
chy, i. 11, it is promised that from the rising to the going 
down of the sun the name of the Lord shall be great 
among the Gentiles ; and in every place there shall be sacri- 
fice offered to his name, a clean oblation.” 

“ That is somewhat different to our version, Becky ; turn 
to it and see what it says.” She turned to it and said : 

“Yes, I see there is a difference ; here, instead of sacri- 
fice, it is incense ; and instead of oblation, it is offering. I 
will make no comment on these variations, but to-morrow 
I will bring you Ward’s ‘ Errata on the Protestant Bible,’ in 
which you will learn the motive or reason for them.” She 
paused a moment, her calm, thoughtful eyes fixed on her 
grandparents, and then resumed: “But, notwithstanding 
the difference, we have, by the word offering, a sacrifice 
promised in every place, from the rising of the sun to the 
going down thereof, and what can this sacrifice be but the 
one Christ instituted when he was pronounced a priest for- 
ever, according to the order of Melchizedeck ? And be 
said to his disciples : ‘ Do this in remembrance of me.’ Do 
what ? Offer up the same sacrifice which he was then offer- 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


183 


ing up. And did they do it ? Did they obey him ? Did 
they continue to offer up the sacrifice his loving mercy 
instituted ? Turn, grandfather and grandmother, to 1 
Corinthians, x. 16, and hear what St. Paul says : ‘The cup 
of blessing which we bless,' is it not the communion of the 
blood of Christ? The bread which we break, is it not the 
communion of the body of Christ ?’ ” 

“ But, child,” said grandfather, “ does not St. Paul in 
his Epistle to the Hebrews, ix. 11, 12, say that ‘Christ 
being come an high-priest of good things to come, by a 
greater and more perfect tabernacle, not made with hands, 
that is to say, not of this building ; neither by the blood of 
goats and calves, but by his own blood, he entered once into 
the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption for us 
and further on, I believe it is the 25th verse : ‘ Nor yet 
that he should offer himself often, as the high-priest enter- 
eth into the holy place every year with blood of others ; for 
then must he often have suffered since the foundation of 
the world ; but now once in the end of the world hath he 
appeared to put away sin by the sacrifice of himself. And 
as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the 
judgment, so Christ was once offered to bear the sins of 
many.’ And, again, in Romans, vi. 9, 10 : ‘Knowing that 
Christ being raised from the dead, dieth no more j death 
hath no more dominion over him. For in that he died, he 
died unto sin once.’ How, child, can you reconcile these 
passages with the belief that Christ is offered up on the 
altars every time the priest says Mass ? Death hath no 
more dominion over him ; how, then, can he be made to 

die daily ?” 

“Grandfather, it is very easy to reconcile these passages 
with the belief of Catholics in regard to ‘the sacrifice of the 
altar.” 


184 


AGNES ; OR. 


“ How, child, when, as I just quoted, he was not to offer 
himself often ; for, as the Apostle justly says : ‘ Then must 
he often have suffered from the foundation of the world ; 
but now, once he appeared to put away sin by the sacrifrce 
of himself. Once, child, you see it is once^ 

“ Yes, grandfather, I do ; and in no way does that clash 
with the Catholic’s belief. ''Christ died once for man ; his 
death paid our ransom, made us free, and opened heaven 
for us,, consequently there can be no need of his dying 
again.” 

“ Then why the sacrifice of the altar ? That seems to 
imply that his sacrifice was not sufficient.” 

“No, grandfather ; so far from that it proves its all- 
saving power; The blood of the Saviour cancelled our 
debt, and in an unbloody manner is it offered up to show our 
love and gratitude, and in obedience to the command he 
gave, when he said : ‘ Do this in remembrance of me.’ In 
Acts xi. we see the disciples continuing the breaking of 
bread ; and in 1 Corinthians, xi. 24, Saint Paul repeats the 
history of this adorable institution, and solemnly affirms 
that as often as one shall eat of the bread and drink of the 
chalice, he shall show the death of the Lord until he corned 
You see, by this, grandfather and grandmother, that it is 
not by way of a new death the Mass is offered up, but as a 
standing memorial of that death, a daily offering up of the 
same to God, and applying to our souls the precious fruits 
thereof. • And to prove that this unbloody sacrifice has 
always been offered up from the apostles’ times, you have 
only to consult the ancient Liturgies of the Church and you 
will be able to trace it through all the centuries dowm to 
the present day. Thus it is by the faithful obedience of the 
one Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church to the commands 
of Christ that the prophecy of Malachy is fulfilled. In 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


185 


every place, from tbe rising to the setting of the sun a • 
clean oblation is thereby offered to the Lord, and his name 
is great among the Gentiles.” 

Grandfather looked earnestly at Becky, and as she was 
about to make some further remarks he raised his hand to 
enjoin silence. He must pause and consider what he had 
already heard before he could hear more. Grandmother 
rolled up her knitting, took off her spectacles, handed them 
to Becky, who laid them on the table, and with her hands 
clasped, sat gazing into the fire. Minute after minute 
passed. A winter storm raged without^ and while Becky 
listened to the blustering winds, creaking . trees, and rat- 
tling window-blinds, she thought of the suffering poor, and 
sent up a silent prayer for them. 

“ ’Tis a wild night,” said grandfather, at length rousing 
himself from thought, “ a wild night, and yet ’tis only typi- 
cal of life. Becky, child, the jarring of the elements with- 
out is nothing to the storms that have shaken my soul.” 

“ But, father,” said grandmother, in her soothing way, 
“they are past, and we will not think of them; we will 
only bless God that the sunshine of peace is at last begin- 
ning to shine on our declining days.” 

“ Mother, you are right ; let the storms of the past be 
forgotten ; let only the calm succeeding them be remem- 
bered.” A smile of love and gratitude lit up his venera- 
ble features. “ Child,’^ he exclaimed, turning, in his ab- 
rupt manner, to Becky, “if you were a Protestant, what 
would first strike you on entering a Catholic place of wor- 
ship?” 

Becky smiled, as she answered, “ I suppose, grandfather, 
it would be the Mass.” 

“ And that explained, you would want further to hear the 
meaning of the ceremonies attending it ?” 


186 


AGNES ; OR, 


“ Yes, grandfather, I would not be satisfied till I knew 
all.” 

“ Then, tell us, child, why the priest wears so strange a 
dress ? Why the little bell is now and then rung, and why 
the priest bows to the altar, kisses it, and passes from one 
side to the other in the course of the service ?” 

. “ Grandfather, in the order in which you have put your 
questions, I will answer them ; but first I must explain 
that, in regard to ceremonies, although the homage of our 
Creator essentially consists in the internal dispositions of our 
souls, and without these, outward worship is vain, still the 
construction of our nature is such that we require external 
signs and ceremonies, to act through the medium of the 
senses upon our souls, and raise them to God.” 

“ True, child ; the worship of the old law was rendered 
more solemn by them, and surely if they had not been 
requisite to our nature, God himself would never have 
instructed Moses to embody his religion with forms and 
eeremonies. But I will not further interrupt you ; go on, 
child, and tell us of the priest’s dress.” 

“ As the Mass, grandfather and grandmother, is, as I have 
told you, a representation of our Saviour’s passion, so it is 
meet that the priest, who officiates in his person, should 
wear, while officiating, vestments representative of those 
with which our blessed Jesus was ignominiously clothed at 
the time of his passion. The Tonsure, or crown, the curi- 
ous-shaped cap the priest wears, represents the erown of 
thorns with which our loving Saviour was crowned. The 
Amice, that is, the small piece of cloth the priest first puts 
on his head and then lowers to his shoulders, represents the 
cloth with which the Jews blindfolded Christ when they 
bade him prophesy who it was who struck him. The Alb, 
that is the long, white garment, the white robe Herod, in 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


187 


mockery, put X)n Mm. The Girdle, the cord which you 
saw confining the folds of the Alb ; the Maniple, the small 
garment he wears on his left arm, and the Stole, the long, 
narrow robe round his neck, and crossing on his breast — 
these represent the cords and bands with which he was 
bound in the different stages of his passion. The Chasu- 
ble, the outside vestment worn over the others, represents 
the purple garment which they put on him when they 
mockingly saluted him King of the Jews. The cross upon 
the back of it represents the cross he bore upon his bleed- 
ing and lacerated shoulders.” 

“ Becky, child,” said grandfather, “ when we went to 
church on Christmas, and saw every thing looking so strange, 
we were almost bewildered ; but the next day, happening 
to turn to Exodus xxviii., we read of the garments, 
whicli^ by the instruction of God, Moses ordered to be pre- 
pared for Aaron and his sons, in which to minister to the 
Lord, and we felt that, however inconsistent to unreflecting 
eyes these things may appear, if they had not been very 
necessary helps to devotion, God would not have intro- 
duced them into what was then the purest religion on the 
face of the earth — a type of that religion which Christ, 
the second person of the- blessed Trinity, was coming on 
earth to establish. J am- glad, dear child, that you have 
explained the meaning of the priest’s dress to us, when 
mother and I talked it over between ourselves, we con- 
cluded they might be symbolical of something---of what, 
we could not tell.” 

“You were riglit in your conclusion, grandfather ; not 
only do they refer to the different parts of the passion, but 
they are emblematic of the ’virtues which should adorn 
both priest and laity. The Amice denotes divine hope — 
hope, which is termed by the Apostle, the helmet of salva- 


188 


AGNES ; OE, 


tion ; the Alb, innocence ; the Girdle, purity and fidelity ; 
the Maniple, patience and submission ; the Stole, the sweet 
yoke of Christ, which is to be borne in this life, in order 
to be happy in the next ; the Chasuble, the outside vest- 
ment covering the others, charity, which 'covereth a multi- 
tude of faults, and which marks us children of God, and dis- 
ciples of Christ. ‘ Love you one another, as I have loved 
you ... by this shall all men know you are my disciples.’* 
Five colors are made use of in the vestments ; white on the fes- 
tivals of our Lord, the blessed Virgin, Sk John the Evangelist, 
the angels, and those saints who* were not martyrs ; red, on 
the festival of the finding and exaltation of the cross, that of 
Pentecost, and the festivals of the apostles and martyrs ; green 
on most of the Sundays and holidays ; violet in the peni- 
tential times of Advent and Lent, and on the Vigils and 
Ember days ; black, upon Good Friday, and in Masses for 
the dead. Your next question, grandfather, was about the 
occasional ringing of the little bell during Mass ; it is rung 
to give notice, to such as cannot see the altar, of more 
solemn parts of the sacrifice, to recall the mind from all 
distraction, and impress it with greater fervor and devotion. 
And now, why the priest bows or makes a reverence before 
the altar? It is because the altar is the seat of the divine 
mysteries, and a figure of Christ, which is not only our 
sacrifice and high-priest, but our altar too.” 

“ Altar, child ?” 

“Yes, grandfather; inasmuch as through him we offer 
our prayers and sacrifices. And why does he kiss the altar? 
it is for the same reason. And why does he move from 
one side of the altar to the other? After the epistle is read 
the book is carried to the other side in order to read there 
the gospel. This removal is to represent the passing from 
* St. John,- xiii. 34, 35. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


189 


the preaching of the old la\Y, figured by the epistle, to 
Christ’s gospel, published and established by the new. At 
the beginning of the gospel priest and people make the 
sign of the cross upon their foreheads, to signify they will 
not be ashamed to confess Christ and his doctrine ; on their 
lips, to signify they will profess it by their words ; and on 
their breast, to signify that not only outwardly but inwardly 
shall it dwell with them.” 

“ Is that the time, Becky, that they all rise ?” 

“ Yes, grandfather ; they rise and stand during the read- 
ing of the gospel, to show* their willingness to do whatever 
their Saviour shall command. On Sundays, the festivals 
of our Saviour, those of the blessed Virgin, the apostles 
and doctors of the Church, the Nicine Creed is said, to 
aver the truths contained in the gospel, and the people re- 
main standing till they come to the woi'ds, ^Et homo factus 
esf — -‘xVnd was made man,’ and then they kneel and bow 
their heads in reverence of the mystery of our Lord’s 
incarnation.” 

“ Becky, child, I noticed the priest, soon after the gospel, 
washed his fingers at the corner of the altar.” 

“Yes, grandfather, and this washing denotes the clean- 
ness and purity with which the divine mysteries should be 
celebrated.” 

“And I noticed, too, at one time of the Mass, a great 
silence to fall upon the people, and, all uninstructed as I was, 
a great awe came over me.” 

“ No wonder, grandfather ; that silence signified the cru- 
cifixion, at which the earth trenijded and shook to its foun- 
dation, and darkness covered the face of nature. Oh ! 
grandfather, that was an awful moment. I am never pre- 
sent at the august sacrifice that I do not then feel as if I 
was standing at the foot of Calvary’s Cross, a witness to all 


190 


AGNES ; OE, 


the prodigies of that day — the sun refusing to give light, 
the veil of the temple rent in two, the rock shivered, the 
earth trembling — and with the centurion I am ready to cry 
out : ‘ Indeed, this was the Son of God !’ ” An intensity 
of light beamed from her eyes, and her voice, though low, 
thrilled with feeling. Her grandparents were deeply 
affected, but, after a little pause, grandfather gently said : 

. “ Dear child, go on ; the evening is waning fast, it will 
soon be eleven, and we fear to keep you up too late.” 

“ Dearest grandfather, you are kind and thoughtful ; it 
would not weary me to dwell on this subject the whole 
night. But I have little more to say. The elevation of 
the Host and Chalice, before which the people bow down 
in adoration, is to represent his painful elevation on 'the 
cross, and the Communion denotes his death and burial. 
Just before the last gospel, the priest turns and gives his 
blessing to all present; and, at the gospel, we again stand, 
as I said before, to signify our readiness to do whatever 
God shall command ; at the words, ‘ Verhum caro factiun 
esty — ‘ The word was made flesh,’ vve again kneel in rever- 
ence to the mystery of our Lord’s incarnation. In Chal- 
loner’s ‘Catholic Christian’ you will see a more particular 
account of the Mass, and the ceremonies attending it.” 
Her words ceased, and again silence filled the room. As 
the clock struck, grandfather started up and exclaimed : 

“ Child ; we will keep you no longer, but another day 
you must tell us the difference between the Sacrifice of the 
Altar and the Sacrament of the Eucharist.” 

“ Dear grandfather, to th^ best of my poor abilities I will 
endeavor to explain it.” 

“ Well, now go ; and may the Father of all bless you !” 
He turned his face to the fire ; and, kissing the withered 
cheek of her grandmother, Becky left the room. 


VIEWS OF OATHOLICITY. 


191 


CHAPTER XII. 

It was at the close of a clear, beautiful day, the pale 
slanting rays of the sun came in at the window, shedding 
a sickly light on the floor, that the widow Clement, just 
returned from a visit to little Mark, was seated before the 
stove. Ellen and Clara stood, one on each side of her, 
asking numerous questions about little Mark — how he liked 
his new home, what fine things he had, and how often he 
was taken out a riding. 

“Did he say,” Ellen impatiently asked, “when he was 
coming to see us ?” 

“ Xo, my dear, he did not ; but he sent you one of his 
picture-books, and said you must learn to read all the pic- 
tures by the time he comes again.” 

She eagerly extended her hand to receive it ; little Clara 
moved round to her, and seating themselves on the floor, 
with the volume spread out on Ellen’s lap, began to enjoy 
the gayly painted pictures. There was one that particularly 
delighted them. It represented a peaceful rural scene ; a 
little girl, with a basket on her arm, was standing under the 
shade of an enormous straw hat ; one little hand was hold- 
ing a bunch of wild flowers, the other was scattering grain 
from a basket to a flock of ducks, which had just emerged 
from a pond close by. Some with their broad, flat bills 
were shovelling up the food with notable industry, while 
others were looking up gratefully into their pretty mistress’s 


192 


AGNES ; OR, 


face, as if trying their best to speak their thanks. On one 
side of the pond were short, clumpy bushes, part washing 
their roots in the water, and part only bathing their dainty 
leaves therein. A velvety pasture, dotted here and there 
with white and red clover, spread around, and over the 
whole the sunshine danced and played in the most natural 
manner. How intently they examined it. And bending 
their heads low, they strove to decipher the few lines under 
it! Reading was yet a sealed mystery to Clara, while 
Ellen could only pick out a letter here and there. Their 
mother’s countenance looked as if engaged in deep thought, 
and they knew at such times they were not to disturb her ; 
oh ! if Marky were only with them, he could tell them all 
about it. 

“ Mrs. Clement’s basket of sewing was by her side ;• she 
touched it not, but sat gazing fixedly upon the stove. She 
was thinking of all Mr. and Mrs. Hilton’s kindness to her, 
how happily Mark was situated in their family, how won- 
derfully improved was Alfred’s health, and there was a glad, 
grateful feeling in her heart as all this passed before her ; 
and yet, one thing puzzled her ; Martha seemed sad, not- 
withstanding the happy changes in her family, and Agnes 
Hilton maintained a cold, distant bearing, not at all in ac- 
cordance with the generous sympathy of her parents. The 
past, as far as Mr. Hilton was concerned, she had never 
mentioned to her children. In the sorrow and desolation 
of after-life it had gradually passed from her mind, or, if 
for a moment memory turned to it, it brought back so many 
painful recollections, that she had learned to pass over it as 
we pass over the package of time-stained letters we received 
in our youth, when those who , wrote them, and those to 
whom they were written, knew naught but of the joy and 
sunshine of life ; when not a cloud had chilled the buoyancy 


4 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


193 


of our spirits ; when our happiness seemed as lasting as the 
heavens above ; and when sickness, old age, and death, 
seemed so far — so very far off — that we could hardly believe 
it possible they could ever come upon us. Ah ! these were 
happy days, and yet the letters written then we cannot 
now bear to read. The hand that traced those delicate 
characters has long since mingled with its mother dust; 
the spirit that dictated those fond words has long been 
called to join its sister band in heaven — they passed away, 
but their letters still remain — remain, and are cherished as 
mournful relics of our early love. Ah ! those glowing 
hopes all blighted ; those grand designs never accomplished ; 
those glorious pictures of the future all false — ’tis too much, 
our bruised souls cannot go over the ruins of the airy cas- 
tles of our youth. And so the sunny past, with all its 
rainbow promises, had been a sealed book to the sorrow- 
stricken widow ; and yet not altogether a sealed book, for 
sometimes, like the dissolving views of a magic lantern, the 
present would insensibly fade away, and the past, with all 
its music of glad voices, would arise before her. But like the 
wandering Jew, when he consulted the great Cornelius 
Agrippa, a sight of past joys made present sorrows more 
unendurable, more bitter still. The children would see a 
greater pallor spread over her cheek and unbidden tears 
spring to her eyes ; but, for fear of further grieving her, 
they dared not question as to her sorrow ; pityingly they 
^would turn away and wonder what made poor mother 
weep. 

Proverbially kind to the indigent and unfortunate, Mr. 
Hilton’s care for the widow and her children caused no re- 
mark. Little Mark’s adoption was very easily accounted 
for ; he had no son of his own, and it was nothing singular 
that he should adopt so intelligent and beautiful a boy. 


194 


AGNES ; OE, 


With Mrs. Clement he freely conversed upon the past, but 
before her children he carefully avoided referring to it. It 
might be pride caused this silence, or it might be he feared 
they would fancy they had too great a claim upon him. 
At all events, she, too, determined to be silent on what was 
evidently, to him, a sensitive subject. But, was she happy ? 
Looking on the improved condition of her family ; feeling 
that her prayer for little Mark had been answered, could 
she be miserable? No; the restored bloom to Alfred’s 
cheek, and little Mark’s glowing accounts of his new home, 
forbade it. If she was not happy, she, at least, was not 
miserable. She was grateful, and gratitude and happiness 
are so nearly allied that sometimes it is almost impossible to 
distinguish between them. But, how different was it with 
Martha ; naturally quick and sensitive, she saw the adop- 
tion of her brother the cause of a bitter estrangement, and 
her first thought was to tell her mother and have him re- 
turned home ; but then Mark could never be educated, and 
might, struggling with poverty, grow up feeble and un- 
able to support himself. Alfred, young as he was, had 
already as great a burden as he could bear ; while others 
of his age were scarcely looked upon as more than children, 
he was called to be the principal stay of the family. Mr. 
and Mrs. Hilton were very kind to Mark, and seemed 
to be very much attached to him. Might not his removal 
even make the breach wider ? Could it be possible that 
Agnes’s coldness arose from the fear that Mark would re- 
ceive a portion of her father’s wealth, and thereby lessen 
her inheritance ? One glance at her was enough to acquit 
her of any such sordid fears ; there was a nobility stamped 
upon her brow, that raised her above any such suspicions. 
Was she proud? Alas! could Martha doubt it, when slie 
daily encountered her cold, disdainful glances. Yes, the 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY 


195 


fact that Mark was the brother of their seamstress affected 
her more than if he were to come in for all, instead of a 
part, of her father’s wealth. Martha would have left, and. 
thereby removed this cause of her uneasiness, but when 
she spoke of going, Mrs. Hilton insisted on her staying, 
and offered to increase her wages; this she would not con- 
sent to, and told Mrs. Hilton it was not for higher wages 
she wished to change her situation. Then wliat was it ? 
Poor Martha was silent ; she could not give the true reason 
without bringing a seeming accusation against Agnes, their 
only child, and she had been reared too piously to conceal 
the truth under a subterfuge. She was painfully embar- 
rassed, and in her agitation, to silence farther questioning, 
promised to stay. Mrs. Hilton warmly pressed her hand, 
and saying : “ Another day, Martha, I will tell you why I 
cannot let you go,” left the room. When alone, Martha 
thought it all over, and determined, as long as they so 
strongly insisted on her staying, that she would remain, and 
in the mean time say nothing to her mother and Alfred of 
the unpleasantness of her situation. One consolation was 
left her, Mark was too young to feel keenly the sting of 
Agnes’s aversion ; he would remain with them, receive a 
liberal education, embrace one of the professions, and be 
able to pay back with interest all they had expended on 
him ; and his great talents — Mi ! how the sister heart of 
poor Martha rejoiced in this — would make them proud of 
the day they adopted the little fiitherless boy. One day, 
after she had concluded to stay, she met Mr. Hilton in the 
passage ; Mark was with him. Laying his hand gently on 
her head, he said : 

“ And so you will not leave us ?” 

“No, sir;” she timidly replied. 

Looking earnestly into her face, as if he would read her 


196 


AGNES ; OR, 


very thoughts, he asked : “ And what does your mother 
and Alfred say to your staying 

“ They knew nothing about my intending to leave, and 
now, concluding to stay, I think it quite unnecessary to — 
to — She stammered and blushed.' 

“ To say any thing about it at all,” he said, finishing out 
the sentence for her. 

“ Yes, sir;” she replied, with downcast eyes. 

“ And you would not give them pain by telling them 
any thing you knew would trouble them ?” 

“No, sir; I would not. Mother has seen sorrow enough 
without my adding to it; and Alfred has no need to be bur- 
dened by any foolish complaining of mine.” 

“ Martha,” he said, “ you are a good, thoughtful girl,” 
and taking little Mark by the hand, he passed into the 
library. 

Ellen and Clara pored oven their book of pictures till 
the gray twilight gathered so thick around them, that all 
was one undistinguishable mass of red, green, and white. 
They closed the magic volume and looked around ; the 
table was set for the evening meal, the fragrant tea sent out 
a grateful odor, a bowl of oyster soup, a favorite dish with 
Alfred, was steaming on the hearth. Mrs. Clement lit the 
lamp, and placed it in the centre of the table, as Alfred, 
with light buoyant step, came in. The children gathered 
around him and told of their new present — what a grand 
book ■ Marky had sent them, and what wonderful pictures 
were in it. Little Clara held up the volume in her tiny 
arms, and in language unintelligible only to the ear of affec- 
tion, childlike, repeated her elder sister’s every word. A 
broad light played over Alfred’s face, and words rose to his 
lips, but he paused as if on the eve of doing a very un- 
manly thing. One glance at the earnest -upturned faces, 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


197 


swept away every foolisli fear. Stooping, he tenderly hissed 
Ellen, afid raising Clara in his arms, pressed her to his 
heart. 

“ Darling little Clara tries to tell me all about it. Bless- 
ings on her. Blessings on my baby sister. If Marky is 
gone, I have two little pets left.” 

Mrs. Clement poured out the tea, and Elleti taking up a 
spoon with great care filled it with sugar from the sugar- 
bowl, and put it into Alfred’s cup, then poured some milk 
into it. His cap had fallen on the floor, she picked it up, 
and, too little to reach the hook he generally placed it on, 
she went and laid it on the bed. She looked at the table 
to see if there was any thing more she could do ; yes, she 
could place the chairs around it. With considerable raking 
and pushing she accomplished this. Alfred was still play- 
ing with Clara, rocking her in his arms, covering her soft 
cheeks with kisses, and enjoying that most musical of 
sounds, a child’s rich, joyous laugh, when Ellen came up 
and pulled his coat. 

“ Alfred,” she said, “ why don’t you sit down to your 
supper ? it’s all ready, the soup is just as you like it, and 
your tea is seasoned.” 

“ And who seasoned it ?” he asked, setting Clara down. 

“ I did,” she replied, looking quite important and very 
happy. 

“ I wonder, mother,” he said, turning to the widow, “ if 
Mr. Simonds is better waited on in his own home, or is a 
more considerable personage than I am in mine ?” 

“ He don’t deserve to be, Alfred, for I am sure he can be 
no kinder.” 

Grace said, and the children’s slices of bread spread and 
placed upon their plates, Alfred remarked : 

‘‘ So, mother, you visited Mark to-day ?” 


198 


AGNES ; OE, 


“ Yes, Alfred.” 

“And did you see Martha too ?” 

“ No, she did not come down to the parlor.” A cloud 
rested on her brow, and seeing it, Alfred said : 

“You are worried about her, mother?” 

“ I don’t know what to think about it. I fear she is not 
well.” 

“ What ! because she is so silent and restless when she 
comes home ?” 

“ Yes ; you know that was not her way. She was always 
so cheerful, and had so much to say, and now you can 
hardly get a word from her.” 

“ But, mother, if all this is owing to sickness, why should 
she hide it from you ? I am sure there never was a kinder 
mother.” Alfred bent on her a fond, grateful look. 

With a troubled countenance, she replied : “ I cannot 
tell ; were it not for Mr. and 'Mrs. Hilton’s great kindness to 
us all, I should fear she was not happily situated, and re- 
frained telling us through fear of giving us pain.” 

“ I declare, mother, it would seem so ; but then it can’t be. 
Mr. Hilton takes the greatest interest in us. To-day I met 
him in the street. After cordially shaking hands with me, 
he pressed me to visit Mark as often as I could, and regretted 
I had so soon resumed my place at Mr. Simonds’s. Link- 
ing his arm in mine, he walked with me the length of the 
street, and, as we parted, he held my hand, and with great 
earnestness said : ‘ Alfred, if you need assistance in any way, 
come to me ; you will find me ever willing and glad to aid 
you.’ Oh, mother, isn’t he kind ? isn’t he good ? he so 
wealthy, to take such an interest in people as poor as we ?” 

Tears trembled on the widow’s lids ; to conceal her agi- 
tation, she busied herself with replenishing the tea-pot, and 
putting a fresh supply of coals into the stove. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


199 


After the meal, as Alfred was preparing to return to the 
store, he said : “ Mother, the next time Martha comes home, 
we must ask her what the change in her means, and if she 
is not happy there, she must leave.” 

“ Alfred, where could she find a better place ? Where a 
kinder mistress than Mrs. Hilton ?” 

“ I don’t know ; but, mother, it may make her unhappy 
to be away from you. You know she never was before.” 

“ Yes, Alfred ; but then if she left them she would have 
to get a situation somewhere else. You know we can’t all 
be a burden on you.” 

“ Why, mother ? Do you suppose I would begrudge her 
the morsel she eats, and the little it takes to dress her ?” 

“ No, Alfred ; but each must contribute their share to the 
general support.” 

“ Just as I did, when I had the fever ? No, no, mother ; 
if Martha is unhappy away from you, she must come home, 
and stay at home too. I will have enough for you all.” 

“ If she only understood the coat and jacket business, I 
would not object, she could be kept in sewing from Mr. 
Simonds’s. But, I will tell you, Alfred, it’s my opinion 
that she is home-sick for Stanton ; being with me, and hav- 
ing nothing to employ her, she would constantly think of 
those days ; her • despondency would become settled, and 
her health would give way. Now, if she is at service, she 
will be kept busy, and in time may get over it.” 

“ I hope she will, but we must try to think of something 
to cheer her up. As soon as I can I will get Mr. Simonds 
to give me a holiday, and then I will take her out a riding. 
She is missino- the s:lorious rides we used to have in the 
country. And now, mother, good-by, till I get back 
again.” He opened the door, and Ellen closed it as he 
passed out. 


200 


AGNES ; OE, 


Several mornings after, as Agnes Hilton was passing 
along the hall, the door-bell rung, and ere she had time to 
beat a hasty retreat, a servant ushered in Miss Pauline 
Simpson. Biting her lips with vexation, she led the way 
to the parlor. She felt in no humor to receive morning 
visitors, and was thoroughly annoyed to be palled upon to 
entertain one that, even in her most genial moments, was 
disagreeable to her. With a haughty wave of the hand 
she motioned to the sofa ; the fairy-like form of Pauline sank 
upon it. Agnes seated herself near the table, and fixing 
her eyes on an engraving, in an indififerent, abstracted voice, 
asked for her friends. 

“ Oh, they are well, thank you ; but, upon my word, I 
thought you had about forgotten us.” 

Agnes looked as if not quite sure of what Miss Pauline 
had said, but as if it was of too little importance to ask her 
to repeat it. 

“ Your mother is well ?” 

“ Very well, I thank you.” 

“ And your adopted brother ? What a sweet child he 
is ! I declare you must feel proud of him. I have seen 
his elder brother, Alfred, I believe, they call him ; he is in 
Mr. Simonds’s store ; and, do you know, I have a great mind 
to make father adopt himP This was said in an ironical 
tone, illy calculated to soothe the irritated feelings of Agnes. 
A light laugh followed it. Pauline often smarted under the 
superciliousness of Agnes, and found great relief for her 
wounded vanity in these little spiteful thrusts. Agnes’s 
brow bent, but without paying the slightest attention to the 
remark, she calmly asked if she had lately seen Edith Carter. 

“Ah, yes, poor Edith ! She is passing away. I called 
a few moments yesterday, and I declare I felt sad the whole 
day after.” 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


201 


“The whole day after!” slowly repeated Agnes, with 
undisguised contenapt in her tone. 

An angry flush swept over the face of her visitor, but 
after a moment she gayly asked : “ Why were you not to 
the concert at Tweedle’s last night? You would have 
heard the most witching strains.” 

“Who was the Prima Donna?” 

“ Miss Sandford. She has a fine soprano voice, clear as 
the nightingale’s, and is an accomplished pupil of the Italian 
schools.” 

“ I have heard her,” quietly observed Agnes. 

“ Well, don’t you think her almost divine ?” 

“No,” she coldly replied, “I have heard others who far 
excel her.” 

“ Who ?” 

“ Madam Elfray. She has not only the bird-like sweet- - 
ness of the Italian school, but the deep cathedral tones of 
the German masters.” 

“Ah, now I recollect why you were not at Tweedle’s; 
you were at the Oratorio at St. J ames’s ?” 

“ I was.” 

“ I suppose I need not ask you how you liked it ?” 

“ No ; a host of talent being secured to do justice to the 
chefs-d'oeuvre of a Handel, Haydn, Himmel, and Beethoven, 
any thing I could say would be quite superfluous.” 

“I attended one a few days before Christmas, at St. 
Mary’s, and I declare I would rather go to one Oratorio 
than to fifty ordinary concerts.” 

Consistency is a jewel, so thought Agnes ; she said noth- 
ing, only it occurred to her that if Pauline was so partial 
to sacred melodies, why did she not attend at St. James’s 
instead of going to Tweedle’s ? However, it might be a 
kind of cpnciliatory slip of the tongue. Pauline looked as 


202 


AGNES ; OE, 


if she had said something very gracious, while Agnes om- 
inously curled her lip, and leaning her head on her hand, 
made no farther effort to prolong the conversation. After 
an embarrassing silence, Pauline rose to go. Scarcely had 
the door closed upon her, when, giving strict charges to 
Archie that she was “ not at home” to any one, she hastily 
retired to her own room. Her ears rung with the hosannas 
she had listened to the night before ; throwing herself on 
the nearest chair, she bowed her head, and covered her face 
with her hands. With the sublime strains came a remem- 
brance of her loneliness and isolation from all that once 
made life dear to her. Pride and obstinacy spread a pall 
over her beautiful home ; tears, bitter, scalding tears washed 
over her cheeks ; rising, she approached the piano, and in 
a low, trembling voice sang the anthem, “ 0 God, have 
mercy.” There was an exquisite tenderness in her tones; 
every harsher feeling seemed charmed to rest. The words 
died on her lips, and she reverently folded her hands. A 
light breath sounded near her ; she looked up, and started 
back. Was it an angel standing beside her ? She blushed 
as she asked herself the question. It was nobody but little 
Mark, her golden-haired brother. Her first impulse was to 
sharply rebuke him for intruding on her, and send him 
from the room ; but the meek, pleading look silenced the 
haughty words. 

“Oh, Agnes!” he exclaimed, his sweet face all lit up 
with enthusiasm, “ isn’t it beautiful 1” 

-“But, why did you come in?” she asked, in rather a 
sorrowful than reproachful tone. 

“I was in the passage,” he answered, “ and I heard you 
singing so that each sound seemed to touch my heart. I 
rapped, but you did not hear me, and I rapped again. 
Then I opetfed the door, and came in softly not to disturb 


VIEWS -OP CATHOLICITY. 


203 


you. And oh, Agnes,” he added, while tears stood in his 
eyes, “ I didn’t know whether I had been taken up to 
heaven, or heaven had come down to me.” 

She looked kindly on him, and rising from the instru- 
ment, walked to her arm-chair before her desk, and seated 
herself in it. 

“ Mark, you may come and sit down on this ottoman,” 
she pointed to one at her feet. With joyful alacrity 
the child obeyed ; resting her elbow on the arm of her 
chair, she leaned her cheek on her open palm, and atten- 
tively regarded his sweet innocent face. The demon of 
pride was laid in her heart for the present ; would that it 
might never again rise ! Bending forward, she swept the 
sunny curls from his brow, and holding His face in her 
hands, tenderly kissed him. In an instant his tiny arms 
were around her neck, and he found himself, he could not 
tell why, sobbing and crying as if his little heart would 
break. 

“ Oh, Agnes, dear, dear Agnes !” he exclaimed, when at 
last he could speak, “ I do love you, and every day I pray 
for you, I do.” 

“ What do you ask of our dear Lord for me?” 

“ That you may be always good, and please God.” Tears 
filled her eyes and again she kissed him. 

Holding her hand in his, he looked up into her face, and 
said : 

“ When I stood in the passage, and heard you sing, it 
made me think of the time when we lived in Stanton, and 
we, too, had a piano.” 

“ What became of it ?” 

“ Oh, it went when father got sick.” A great gravity 
rested on his childish face, and his eyes musingly sought 
the carpet. “ Every thing went then,” he added, with . a 


204 


AGNES ; OR, 


sigh ; “ no, not every thing, not till Alfred got sich ; then 
it was that all went.” Shudderingly he glanced around, 
and as if for the first time he had noticed the elegant ap- 
pendages of her room, with the volatility and susceptibleness 
of childhood, he exclaimed: “Oh, how beautiful !” point- 
ing to the right hand of the piano, he asked : “What statue 
is that r 

“ That is Saint Agnes.” 

“ How lovely it looks with its hands folded, and its eyes 
raised in prayer. And there, over the mantelpiece, as true 
as I live, is the Mater Dolorosa ! Oh, how I love it ! How 
I love it !” he exclaimed, clasping his hands. 

“ You have seen it before ?” 

“ No, not that one ; but we used to have one just like it, 
except it wasn’t in so grand a frame. AVe all loved it so, 
we kept it as long as we could. Father died with his eyes 
fixed upon it ; but when Alfred got sick, and every thing 
went, mother at last had to send that away.” He took out 
his tiny pocket-handkerchief, and wiped away the great tears 
that rolled over his cheeks. 

Agnes was surprised to find herself in familiar converse 
with one whom she had looked upon with, as she consid- 
ered it, well-founded aversion, — one whose adoption into 
her family had been sorely against her will. Never before 
had he entered her room ; never since the first morning she 
met him and her father in the hall had she spoken to him, 
yet now he conversed with all apparent ease, and was so 
gentle and affectionate in his nature, that she felt she could 
truly love him, and almost regretted her cold, proud obsti- 
nacy. But the wicked thought that Martha had triumphed 
over her — for, as usual, pride, with all its loftiness, had 
stooped to mean, petty rivalry, and foolish jealousy — arose 
before her like the prompting of some dark fiend. It 
*6 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


205 


brought with it so desolate a feeling that she tried to silence 
it, and hastily addressed the child. 

“ And so you like my room ?” 

“ Oh yes, it’s all grand below stairs, but here it is beau- 
tiful, so beautiful. The landscape yonder, how strange it 
is ; the bending sky, and the bare hills, the narrow winding 
stream, and the dark trees in the valley. Oh, how still 
every thing around it looks ; even the sunshine and shadow 
seem silent and sad !” 

Agnes led him up to the picture : “ Does it look so lone 
now, Mark ?” she asked. 

“ Oh yes, lone, very lone. The sky is very blue, and the 
little stream is so clear, that I can see the smooth stones at 
the bottom, and the trees seem stirred by some gentle wind, 
but the bare hills.” He paused, and taking his eyes from 
the picture, looked up into her face. She answered the 
mute appeal by finishing the sentence for him : “ But the 
bare hills, Mark, are silent, and the spirit of desolation 
broodeth there.” 

“ Yes, oh yes, Agnes. What is the name of this strange 
picturp ?” 

“ It is a ‘ View from the east side of J erusalem.’ ” He 
clung doser to her, and pressing her hand in a half-timid, 
half-entreating tone, exclainied : 

“ Oh, Agnes, I should like so much to hear all about it. 
Father James used to tell me a great deal about Jerusalem, 
where our Lord suflfered and died.” 

“ But did he ever tell you of David and Goliah ?” A 
smile played round her beautiful mouth as she glanced down 
on the enthusiastic child. 

“ Oh yes, he told me ever so much about them ; how 
Goliah gloried in his great size and strength, and was greatly 
puflfed up with pride ; how he defied the whole army of the 


206 


AGNES ; OR, 


Israelites, and challenged them to fight hand to hand with 
him ; how he showed himself to them, mocking and tempt- 
ing them, for, I think he said, forty days, and by-and-by 
our Lord, to show how much he despised his pride, allowed 
him to be killed by a boy with a sling ; that David was the 
name of the boy ; and Father James, further said that when 
the multitude went out with great rejoicing to meet him, 
and sung that Saul had slain his thousands and David his 
ten thousands, envy entered the heart of Saul, and from 
that he tried to kill him.” A look of horror passed over 
his countenance as he said this. “Oh, isn’t it dreadful, 
dreadful to think of? But Father James told me that 
from pride comes envy, and from envy, hatred; and that 
these passions ruined Saul, who had been chosen by the 
Lord to be king over his people, and that afterwards he died 
miserable, and David was chosen in his place to reign over 
all Israel. You see I don’t forget what Father James said ?” 

“ No, Mark ; you have an excellent memory. Now, you 
see these two hills confining the valley on the right and 
the left?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, here the armies of the Israelites and Philistines 
took their stand. The little winding stream is tlie very 
stream from which David took the five small stones that he 
placed in his scrip, and the valley through which the stream 
flows, is the very valley — the valley of Terebinth — in which 
the youthful David slew the proud Philistine.” 

The child stood, with wonder depicted on every feature. 
“The very stream ! the very valley ! the very hills !” he 
murmured ; then pointing with his outstretched arm to the 
landscape, he asked : “But where are the people that were 
gathered there? Father James told me the mountains 
were covered with, them.” 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


207 


Agnes started back at the strangeness of the question ; 
when, without waiting for an answer, he slightly bent his 
head forward, and fixed his eyes on the carpet. She did 
not wish to disturb his revery by any remark, but leaning 
against the high back of an arm-chair, attentively regarded 
his grave thoughtful countenance. At length, raising his 
head, he exclaimed : 

“ Ah ! now I know why it looks so silent and sad ; the 
stream, the hills, the valley — they are mourning for the 
dead people — for them that are ^one.” 

“ Yes,” she musingly said ; “they are, indeed, gone. They 
are a nation no more.” 

“ I don’t want to see any other picture, or fine things,” 
he said, after another pause ; “ I have seen enough for 
to-day.” 

“Well, then, you may go. I have some books to look 
over, and I would like to be alone.” 

He started, and had reached the door ; when, with his 
hand on the knob, he turned, and hesitatingly asked : 

“ May I come again when I have told sister Martha all 
about the picture, and how kind you have been to me?” 
Childlike, he had touched on a most forbidden subject. 

Sister Martha ! how those two words rung in her ears, 
fiercely rousing the dormant passion within. Poor little 
Mark ! he quailed beneath her angry glance, as she sternly 
answered : “ No !” He strove to open the door, but in his 
confusion his tiny hands were powerless. With a sudden 
assumed haughtiness, she approached, and opened it for 
him. As she returned to her seat, she regretted she had 
not at once sent him from the room. The more lovable 
she found him, the more was she incensed against her 
parents for being so gracious to his family, and rttaining 
Martha in their service. 


208 


AGNES; OE, 


“ They do it to show their authority over me, and to let 
me see they regard the feelings of a servant more than 
they do mine.” A hard expression ’ settled round her 
mouth ; turning to her desk, she brushed aside some papers, 
and once more took up her manuscript. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


209 


CHAPTER XIII. 

She slowly turned the leaves over till she came to the 
fourth chapter, and while her lips retained their firm com- 
pression, and her brows their heavy frown, commenced its 
perusal. 

# 

“ ’Tis not till after the funeral rites have been performed, 
and we return to the silent house, that we fully realize our 
sad bereavement. Before, the confusion of people coming 
in and going out, the hurry of the attendants, aijd among 
the poor, the struggle to get decent mourning habiliments, 
thinking to neglect it would be showing disrespect to the 
dead ; among the rich, the pride, ostentation, and the 
secret, away back in the heart, feeling of satisfaction, that 
many will attend, who, on like occasions, had found it im- 
possible to make so grand a display ; or, as flattering self-love 
teaches them to term it, had thus honored and reverenced 
their deceased. ’Tis after all this is over, the struggle on the 
one hand, and the pride and vanity on the other, that, as I 
said before, we fully realize our bereavement. We look on 
the vacant bed, the unoccupied chair, the deserted room, and 
feel that they are gone; We listen — but why, alas ! should 
we listen ? that well-known footstep will never more strike 
on the ear — that well-remembered voice will never more 
send to the heart its thrilling tones of gladness. They are 
gone ! they are gone ! and now in lofieliness and desolation 
we wander through the silent rooms, and ring our hands 
and groan, in all the agony of inconsolable bereavement. 


210 


AGNES ; Of{, 


“ The gay and volatile, in the course of a few months, 
may so far forget their sorrow, that, were it not for the out- 
ward garments of mourning, one would hardly believe the 
eyes beaming with joy ever shed tears over the couch of 
death. Even to themselves, the anguish they experienced 
will rise up before them like the horrors of some fearful 
dream, or, rather, like the remembrance of past physical 
pain. But, there are others, with whom the wound is never 
healed. Years may pass ; the mourning garments be laid 
aside; but still the heart weeps on; they feel they have 
no longer sympathy in the world ; no one can understand 
them ; should they speak out the thoughts that crowd upon 
their minds, they feel they would be considered wild and 
visionary, and they instinctively shrink from the conde- 
scending forbearance of some, and the rude wonder and 
sneering taunts of others ; and so communing only with the 
dead past, they become to the world timid, silent, and 
reserved. 

“ The bed and bedding, on the death of Mr. Plarny, had 
been carried out; a wide board placed on the empty bedstead, 
a sheet spread over it, and on this his cold, stiUened form 
had been laid, shrouded in the white habiliments of the 
grave. The board and sheet had been removed by some 
thoughtful hand ; only the empty bedstead met the gaze of 
the widow on her return from the burial. Removing her 
shawl and bonnet, she seated herself near the head of it, 
and clasping her hands, with a marble face of wretched- 
ness, sat gazing fixedly upon it. Joe crouched up near her, 
for in the loneliness of the room he began to feel a great 
fear stealing over him. Bridget busied herself in the back 
kitchen ; Mike put out the horses, milked the cows, and did 
the evening chores. In due time Bridget announced tea ; 
the widow started like one aroused from a painful dream. 


^^EWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


211 


“ ‘ Come, mother, come ; tea is all ready, and I feel so 
lonesome here.’ Little Joe vigorously pulled her hand; 
she did not draw it back, but with the other softly pushed 
the hair from his forehead, and smiling, calmly arose. Her 
calmness pained the kind, alFectionate Bridget more than 
tears and sobs ; it seemed so sad, so uncomplaining. At 
the table, Mike tried to think of something to say that 
would take her mind from her grief. His father and Maurice 
had been over about a week before, and harvested the wheat, 
but the barley and oats were still out, and he knew they 
intended in a few days to come over and cut them, so now 
he would speak of them. 

“ ‘ Wasn’t father and Maurice lucky to get the wheat in 
just before that tremendous shower?’ 

“‘Yes, Mike;’ she replied, in a low voice, without 
directing her eyes to him. 

“ ‘ And don’t you think, Mrs. Harny, that they’ll have a 
fine time for the barley and oats ?’ 

“ She did not answer him ; her thoughts were far away to 
the first time she saw Francis Harny, *and the pitying light 
that beamed from his eyes upon her. His had been the 
first kind voice she had heard since her parents’ death ; and 
how nobly, how generously had he taken part against the 
exactions of a hard, selfish mistress ; and when that mis- 
tress, indignant that any one should feel a sympathy for 
her, grew harder and more exacting than ever, how he re- 
leased her from her bondage by mariying her, and taking 
her to his own home. But now he was gone ! gone ! and 
she was once more alone. A wild look of agony gleamed 
from her eyes, and heavy drops stood on her brow. 'Brid- 
get, with_ thoughtful kindness, pressed her to taste the 
delicacies she placed upon her plate. 

“ ‘ I can’t, Bridget, I can’t. Don’t ask me to. And 


212 


AGNES ; OR, 


Francis is in liis close damp grave,’ she said, pursuing her 
own train of thought. ‘ In his close damp grave to-night ; 
the winds are murmuring around him, and the dews have 
settled on his bed.’ 

“ ‘ But his soul,’ said Bridget ; impressively laying her 
hand on her arm, ‘ his soul, praises to Grod, is this night in 
heaven. No more will he be troubled for want of breath ; 
and no more will that wearing cough and tightened feeling 
across his chest trouble him. He’s away from it all, and 
the good God has freed him from every pain.’ 

“ ‘Yes, yes; he is away from it all, and free from every 
pain ; but — but — oh ! I cannot speak what’s in my heart. 
God’s will, not mine, be done. And now eat your meal, 
children, and don’t mind about me. I will drink some of 
your tea, Bridget, but I cannot eat.’ 

“No more was said during the meal, and after it Brid- 
get quietly cleared away the dishes, then lighted a candle, 
set it on the shelf under the window, let down the paper 
curtain, and drawing up a chair seated herself on one side 
of the widow ; Mike, loo, drew up his chair, and Joe, with 
his arm round Douce’s neck, sat on a low bench before her. 
How wistfully they gazed up into the pale face, with its 
settled look of wretchedness ! 

“ ‘ If she would only cry,’ whispered Bridget, ‘ I know 
she would feel better.’ ■ 

“‘I am frightened,’ said little Joe, for the loneliness 
pressed heavily upon him ; ‘ let us say our prayers,’ he cried, 
untwining his arm from Douce’s neck, and hastily crossing 
himself. They all sank upon their knees, and taking out her 
beads, Bridget commenced the second part of the Rosary. 
As they arose, Mrs. Harny gratefully pressed her hand. 

“ ‘ God’s mercy endureth forever,’ she said, ‘ we are not 
all alone — all desolate.’ 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


213 


“ ‘ No ; Mrs. Harny, no ; not as long as you have us. 
We’d go the round of the world for you. There’s nothing 
we wouldn’t do for you in your great sorrow.’ 

“ ‘ And may God reward you. But, oh ! if I could only 
shake off this load that’s on my heart ; it presses me to the 
very earth.’ She sighed heavily. 

“‘Yon can’t shake it off yourself!’ exclaimed Mike, 
reverently raising his eyes ; ‘ you can’t shake it off, but God 
will lighten it for you, if you only won’t forget, when you 
feel it weighing you clear down, to call on him and his 
blessed mother.’ 

“‘Yes, Mike; if I would not forget. But there it is; 
when it presses so heavily upon me, I forget every thing. 
I only remember — ’ a greater pallor spread over her coun- 
tenance, and her voice died away to a whisper — ‘ him who 
is gone ! and a stonier wretchedness creeps over me.’ 

“ ‘ I feel it creeping over me now 1’ exclaimed Joe, shud- 
dering, and glancing over his shoulder into the darkened 
room. 

“ ‘ No, Joe',’ said Bridget, kindly ; ‘ you don’t feel it. 
You think you do ; but your feelings are very different 
from your poor mother’s.’ She snuffed the candle, and 
again seating herself, threw her arm around him. 

“ ‘ Mother, father, and Miles will be over Sunday,’ ob- 
served Mike, after a somewhat lengthened pause. 

“ A light broke over Joe’s face. He was so lonely, and 
his mother was so sad, that the prospect of seeing the kind- 
hearted Mrs. -Connor sent a glad feeling to his heart. The 
poor widow smiled a vacant smile ; ’twas evident her 
thoughts were far away. Bridget and Mike, who closely 
resembled each other in their tine, fresh complexions, sandy 
hair, and hazel eyes, looked upon her with the most pro- 
tective kindness. Bridget was a sensible girl, and she 


214 


AGNES ; OE, 


thought the best way to rouse her from the stupor of grief 
would be to enlist her sympathies for some one who had 
been similarly bereaved; pity for the sorrows of others 
would lighten her own. 

“ ‘ Mrs. Harny,’ she said, ‘ do you recollect the widow 

Donnell, at whose place we stop when we go to A , to 

Mass V 

“ ‘ Yes, Bridget,’ was the abstracted reply. 

“ ‘ Well, now, Mrs. Harny, let me tell you her story. She, 
too, has seen a great deal of trouble. Mr. Donnell, soon 
after his marriage, came to America. With the first money 
he earned he bought a house-lot, and with the second built 
a small, but comfortable, house. This was about the time 
the church was built, and being head carpenter he got the 
job. As soon as he received his pay he sent for bis wife ; 
she arrived in the fall, immediately they went a housekeep- 
ing, and a happier couple you never saw. Every spare 
moment Mr. Donnell devoted to working in his little garden, 
and beautifying his house ; they had the finest vegetables, 
excellent grapes, currants, and berries, and just under the 
windows— nowhere else, for he couldn’t spare the ground 
for it — were sweetbriers, lilac-bushes, morning-glories, and 
woodbine; indeed, the morning-glories and woodbine formed 
their curtains and window-blinds. I used to think it was 
the loveliest spot on the face of the earth, and Mr. and Mrs. 
Donnell were so happy. But lasting happiness belongs 
not to this world. One day, a^high scaffold he was work- 
ing on gave way, and he fell, badly hurting his shoulder 
and knee. He was taken home, and a physician sent for ; 
he came, set the knee, but said his limb would be ever after 
stiff ; as to his shoulder, he thought it would soon be well. 
Mrs. Donnell waited on him with the tenderest care, but he 
never got able to do another day’s work. His knee in due 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


215 


time got well, and, as the doctor said, was stiff ; but his 
shoulder grew worse, and finally his whole arm became 
palsied. Mrs. Donnell did her best to support him ; she 
took in sewing, and when he got able to sit up she went 
out a washing ; but, with all her exertions, she could not 
keep out of debt. Mr. Donnell would want this doctor or 
that, thinking they might hejp him so he could go to work 
again,, and although she had but little faith in their skill, to 
please him she would send for them. At length, worn out 
with pain, he died, and she, like you, Mrs. Harny, was left 
a widow.’ 

“ ‘ And what did she do, Bridget V The abstraction was 
gone, and a tear of sympathy glistened in her eye. 

“ ‘ Her house was so heavily mortgaged that she could 
no longer call it her own. Indeed, Mrs. Harny, when he 
died she hadn’t a cent in the world, not even for the funeral 
expenses.’ 

“ ‘ And was he buried by the town ?’ 

“ ‘ God forbid ! No, no ! When his friends — all from 
his own country, you know — heard how matters stood, they 
raised a subscription among themselves; bought a hand- 
some coffin, decent mourning clothes for her, and had as 
respectable a funeral for him as he could have had if he had 
died wealthy. Well, after it was all over, she gave up her 
beautiful little house, and went out to service. She stayed 
out for four or five years, every year sending home to Ire- 
land twenty or thirty dollars, besides laying by a little sum 
for am object she had in view.’ 

“‘What was the object, Bridget?’ 

“ ‘ It was to get enough money to rent a small house, her 
old one, if possible, and take in a few boarders. At last 
she accomplished it, and you don’t know how wonderfully 
she got along. In two years she bought back her old 


£10 


AGNES ; OK, 


home ; she said she might as well be making payments as 
paying rent. Well, in a little while, she had paid up every 
cent for it, and then, what did she do but buy another ; this 
she also paid for, and now the rent of it very comfortably 
supports her, and she is no longer obliged to keep boarders. 
She takes in a little sewing, enough to clothe 'her and pay 
her church dues ; and, although she has seen much poverty 
and great sorrow, she is always cheerful and resigned. In 
the eyes of the world, I have heard Father John say, she 
might be looked upon as a poor ignorant woman, but in 
the school of affliction, she had learned the wisdom of the 
saints. In every thing she resigns herself to the will of 
God, and this, Mrs. Ilarny, is the best and greatest of wis- 
dom.’ Bridget’s story was finished, and she sat anxiously 
watching the changing countenance of the widow. 

“ ‘ Bridget !’ she at length said ; ‘ you are right, and may 
God give me grace ever to bow to his holy will ! But, 
children, it is getting late, we will say our prayers; and, 
Bridget dear, you will read the Litany for the Dead.’ Her 
voice quivered and her eyes filled as she made the request. 

“‘Yes, Mrs. Harny, I will.’ 

“Weeks passed on; the widow strove to be resigned, 
but the pale face and weary watching eyes told of a bitter 
struggle. She had not the natural buoyancy of Mrs. Don- 
nell, and beside her health was rapidly failing. Sometimes, 
taking her work-basket, she would leave the house, and, 
walking to the woods, seat herself on the very log where, 
in happier days, she and her husband had talked of the 
pleasant future. Pleasant ! ah ! how that word mocked her 
now, as she listened to the memories of the past. At her 
feet was the moss-covered stone that he had called her fairy 
foot-stool ; here and there lay decaying logs wrapped in a 
thick pall of velvety green ; scattered profusely around her 


VIEWS OE CATHOLICITY. 


217 


were pale fragrant flowers, that looked as, if removed to the 
open fields, they would wither and die ; above her head 
waved the maple and beech, upon whose branches the wind 
chanted a low sweet dirge, in unison with her saddened 
thoughts. Here she had sat, and while looking into his 
fine open countenance, and listening to his kind words, felt 
that she, a poor orphan girl, need no longer feel the cold- 
ness and unkindness of the world — that God had raised her 
up a noble protector — a protector who not only labored hard 
to make her a comfortable home, but who had kindly and 
unweariedly instructed her, till she became a devoted cliild 
of the true faith — that glorious faith which soothed and 
comforted her now, in the sad hours of bereavement. Her 
love had not been of the selfish kind ; she fully realized his 
devotion, and she strove to repay it by being the kindest and 
most affectionate of wives. She kept his house in the finest 
order, she scrupulously attended her little dairy ; his meals 
were always regularly served, his clothes, when they became 
broken, were carefully mended ; every thing to her was a 
labor of love; and now, when he was gone, and she could 
do no more for him, she would have sunk into an apathy 
of woe had there not been left to her the pious duty of 
praving for his departed soul. He was so good, so faultless, 
that she would have considered it almost superfluous to 
pray for him, had she not borne in mind that the just man 
falls seven times ; that we must give a strict account of 
every idle word, and that out of the prison-house of pro- 
pitiation the soul is not released till the last farthing is 
paid. Slipping from the log, she would sink on hei’ knees, 
and tightly clasping her hands, in the language of Tertul- 
liaii, speaking of the duties of Christian widows, ‘ pray for 
her husband and beg refreshment for him.’ ’Ihen, with a 
calm, resigned countenance, she would return home, and, 
10 


218 


AGNES ; OE, 


busying herself about the house, glide round with the noise- 
less step of a spirit. During the day she seldom spoke, 
but in the evening, gathering little Joe, Mike, and the faith- 
fuLBridget around her, in her low sweet voice, she would 
converse with them on the duties of a Christiau, and strive 
to instil into their youthful minds lessons of piety and 
virtue. Thus the summer months passed away. Al- 
ready the setting sup had tinged the autumn leaves ; the 
pale wood-flowers were gone, but a fragrance, like the spices 
.of the East, fllled the air ; a carpet of rustling leaves covered 
the ground, and pale slanting rays of sunshine streamed 
through the half-denuded branches; the social song of the 
robin and the wild rapturous carol of the bobolink no 
longer were heard ; naught but the mournful sobbing voice 
of the winds broke the silence of the dying year. 

“One day, little Joe came in from the flelds, and not 
finding his mother in the house, he went to seek her in her 
favorite place, the woods. She was kneeling beside her 
rustic seat, her head bowed down upon it, and her face 
buried in her hands.' He twined his arms around her and 
begged her to arise and come home. 

“ ‘ Oh ! do, mother, do !’ he exclaimed, turning with a 
frightened expression, and pointing to the west. ‘ See ! a 
big cloud has risen, and is sending a shadow over the earth. 
Come, mother, come before the storm bursts on us !’ 

“ She slowly raised her head from the log and removed 
her hands from her face ; ’twas deadly pale, and traces of 
recent tears were visible upon it. 

“ ‘ Mother ! oh ! mother, will you break ray heart ?’ he 
asked, wiping with his pocket handkerchief the moisture 
from her cheeks. She made an effort to reply, but the 
words died away on her white lips ; she tried to rise, but 
fell heavily against him A dreadful fear thrilled his heart. 


VIEWS or CATHOLICITY. 


219 


Was his mother dying 2 In an agony of terror he hung 
over her, and wiped the heavy drops from her brow. She 
smiled on him and pressed his hand. 

“ ‘ Oh, mother, don’t die ! don’t leave me all alone !’ he 
sobbed. 

“ ‘ My God ! my God ! James, she is dying !’ exclaimed a 
well-known voice, and, to his great relief, Mr. and Mrs. Connor 
stood beside him. They were coming cross lots, to stay 
with the widow over Sunday. Mrs. Connor quietly took 
off her warm woollen shawl and wrapped it around the slight 
form; Mr. Connor spread his coat on the log, and carefully 
they lifted her to it, while little Joe was immediately dis- 
patched to the house for blankets and stimulants. 

“ ‘Pray God!’ exclaimed Mrs. Connor, chafing her hands 
and temples, ‘ she may revive so as to be removed to the 
honse before the storm comes down ! How dark it grows, 
and how fearfully the wind howls through the trees ! Oh! 
poor thing, it would quite kill her to be catched out, and it 
raining !’ 

“ ‘Do you tliink it is a faint, Ellen V 

“ ‘ Oh no, James, it’s more like death. She is perfectly 
sensible ; but how wildly the leaves are blown about. O 
God ! what shall we do if the rain comes down ? I felt a 
sprinkle on my face just now ; there, James, sit so she can 
lean against you, and I will stand so as to shelter her as 
much as possible. Oh ! how pale, how pale she is ; pray 
God it is ‘not death !’ 

“ With redoubled effort, the kind Mrs. Connor rubbed her 
cold hands till little Joe, almost breathless, returned. A 
warm blanket was immediately wrapped around her, and a 
stimulant administered ; soon the blood once more coursed 
through the blue veins. She feebly raised her head from 
its resting-place, and silently pressed the hands of her faith- 


220 


AGNES ; OE, 


ful friends. Tears stood in the depths of her eyes, hut they 
did not fall ; she glanced wildly around and hastily arose. 

“ ‘ Oh, the storm !’ she faintly exclaimed. 

“ ‘ Yes ! it is very threatening. If you would only lean on 
us, I think we might reach the house before it comes down. 
At least, James, we might make the attempt,’ she added, 
reading the doubting, troubled expression of his counj^e- 
nance ; ‘ it would be better to be in the open fields. I fear 
the uprooting of some of these heavy trees.’ 

“ Almost carrying the slight form, they succeeded in reach- 
ing the house just as the cold rain came pattering smartly 
against the window-panes., Mrs. Connor advised her im- 
mediately retiring to bed, and all that night she watched 
over her with the gentle, patient love of a mother. For 
several hours she complained of great oppression of the 
chest and difficulty of breathing, then she rallied and spoke 
long and clearly of little Joe’s affairs. In conclusion she 
said : 

“ ‘ When Frangis appointed Mr. Connor and Mr. Reed 
trustees, deputing to them the authority of guardians in case 
I should be called away before he attained his majority’ 
(she smiled to hear herself, a poor sick woman, using law 
terms), ‘he felt, Mrs. Connor, that he was intrusting him 
to those who would have truly a fatherly care over him, and 
that you would be a kind, faithful friend to him.’ 

“ ‘ He might well know that, child ; never shall Francis 
Harny’s son want for a friend while I live. Oh, poor Francis ! 
well do I remember the day that you and he first came to 
see us. We were almost beside ourselves with joy; we 

didn’t know that there was a Catholic nearer us than A^ , 

and to think that you had moved, as I might say, right in 
our midst, for what signified the seven or eight miles be- 
tween us ? Ah, that was a bright, proud day for us , long 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


221 


after you went back, the next day, James and I sat by the 
fire, talking of happy Sundays, Father Gillen, the iyy-clad 
chapel at home, and the quiet churchyard where, after James 
began to pay his addresses to me, we often used to wander, 
to get away from the noisy children. There we were not 
disturbed ; the silence of the place, and the still marble 
head-stones, and here and there the little wooden crosses, 
called forth a grave, but not a gloomy, train of thought.’ 

“ ‘ They chastened and purified your love.’ 

“ ‘Yes, child, yes ! There where others had laid down the 
cares and burden of life, we just commenced ours — there 
we planned and laid out our after-life — talked of leaving 
that hallowed spot where the bones of our fathers slept — 
the home where all our memories were enshrined, the chapel 
where we had lisped our earliest prayers, the friends who 
had ever been kind and generous — talked of leaving them 
all, to cross the wild waters of the ocean,^and build in a 
strange land a home for ourselves and children. We were 
strong in each other’s love ; ’twas well we were, for when 
we come to bid them all good-by, and at last found our- 
selves borne along as it were, by some invisible power to this 
dreary wilderness, it sometimes seemed as if the gates of the 
world were closed against us, and we were in a gloomy prison, 
suffering a living death. No chapel, no priest, no friends, 
no quiet graveyard, no*liome with its thousand and one en- 
dearments. Our dark little cabin, child, seemed no home 
to us. - We worked hard and saved all we could; at last we 
got able to build a better house. We thought, then, we 
would enjoy life. IIow foolish the thought ! Walls and 
doors could never fill the empty place in our hearts ; we 
were lonely still. We missed, ah, none can tell how much, 
we • missed the society of those of our own faith. The 
Protestants around us were kind; but you know what a stiff, 


222 


AGNES ; OE, 


proud, self-sufficient way they have of looking on Catholics, 
and talking — some of their most ignorant — of the Dark Ages 
of Popery, and calling us priest-ridden and superstitious, 
because we wouldn’t go to hear some of their ministers, 
duhbed Brother this, or Elder that. It was a cold rainy 
evening in the fall, just such an evening as this, the wind 
whistled the same round the house, that James, who had 

been to A with a load of grain, came home, and told me 

a priest had been up from New York, that they were going 
to build a church, and that he had given towards it all his 
load of grain had brought. I could scarcely believe him ; 
I thought he only said so to fool me, but four 'sveeks from 
the following Sunday, we went, and sure enough the priest 
was there saying Mass in a priv^ate house, and talking wdth 
the few Catholics around him of the church. We ajrain 
subscribed our mite, and had Maurice, Bridget, Nellie, and 
Mike baptized. Ah ! tliat was a grand day for the Catho- 
lics in and around A . They had come in for forty miles ; 

the priest’s voice trembled, and there" wasn’t a dry eye in 
the room.’ She paused a moment, to regain her composure, 
and then hurriedly resumed : 

Well, the church was built, and we used, from that, to 
go as often as two or three times a year. We didn’t, then, 
feel so lonely ; but, still, we missed Catholic neighbors. At 
last you came among us, and it seemed as if all our wishes 
were granted. Oh, child, you don’t know what a gap you 
ffiled inour hearts !’ (she bent forward and kissed the pale 
brow of the widow), ‘you were our brother, our sister, the 
cherished kindred we left in the olden home; long, long, I 
say, after your visit, James and I sat and talked of the past, 
and again to-night it all comes over me so.’ A large tear 
rolled over her cheek, and again bending forward she kissed 
the pale brow. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


223 


“ 111 a sobbing voice the poor widow poured out her grati- 
tude for all her kindness, and begged her, when she was 
gone, to be a mother to little Joe, and see that he was faith- 
ful to his religion. The promise was solemnly given ; then 
shaking up the pillow, Mrs. Connor begged her to try and 
compose herself to sleep. 

“ ‘ I have talked too much,^ she said, dashing the tears 
from her eyes. 

“Deeply affectionate in her nature, tl]j^ prospect of 
the widow following her husband, and leaving them, 
as before, alone with those who looked with insulting 
condescension or cool contempt on the religion which 
Jesus founded, and his apostles propagated, shook her very 
soul with grief. But as she gazed on the pallid face and 
trembling lips, she feared she had unconsciously stirred the 
bitter fountain of memory, and that its remorseless waves 
were washing all peace and happiness from "the stricken 
heart. Strong convulsions shook the feeble frame, and tears 
streamed through the closed lids. She passed her hand 
caressingly over the wan cheek, and spoke kind and sooth- 
ing words. At length the sobs died away, the invalid 
sunk into a light slumber, and dreamed of him whose im- 
age was never absent from her waking thoughts. 

“ Several weeks she lingered on, suffering no pain, but 
daily growing more and more shadowy. The sun of little 
Joe’s life was hid behind black heavy clouds ; an intolerable 
gloom hung over him ; the joyous smile of childhood died 
from his face ; his step lost its elastic bound. Silent and 
sad he would sit by his mother’s side, and, gazing tenderly 
into her loved face, think how short a time and she would 
be sleeping beside his father, and he be left alone — all alone. 
What a world of anguish these words express ! none knew 
their meaning better than he. In vain the Connors assured 


224 


AGI5-.ES; OE, 


him of their faithful friendship. His noble and gifted 
father — his beautiful and gentle mother, would be gone, and 
nobody would ever again love little Joe as they had loved 
him. Poor child ! he writhed in the agony of despair, and 
alone, all alone, still rung in his ears. 

“It was past the cheese-making season, so Mrs. Connor 
stayed constantly with the invalid. At last she became so 
low that -again was Maurice dispatched for the priest ; he 
came, and, fortified with the last Sacraments of the Church, 
the widow went to rejoin her husband in a better land. 
Another mound was raised in the little cemetery, and Joe 
Harny was left a lone orphan in the world. Taken to the 
faithful Connors, he remained with them a year.” 

As Agnes concluded the chapter, she*arose, and slowly 
walked up and down the room. “ How strange !” she ex- 
claimed ; “ but the casual mention of that little cemetery 
reminds me of the landscape ‘ By-gone Days ; or, the 
Cemetery of the Woods,’ which father gave me several 
years ago.” She paused before a plainly gilt frame. -Ceme- 
tery, did she say ? Surely that peaceful scene speaks not 
of the cypress and the yew. Upon a slight eminence stands 
a pleasant farm-house ; two windows are open, through 
which curtains, white as. drifted sjiow, are gently drawn ; 
morning-glories and eglantine creep over a, long open porch ; 
a rich green, with here and there a rose and lilac bush, sweeps 
down the road, from which it is separated by a neatly painted 
fence. On one side are wide-spreading fields of grain ; on 
the other, a noble meadow stretches far away, while in the 
background rises a fine thrifty orchard. A cemetery ! 
Surely she must have said it in mockery. Never was there 
a scene farther removed from the gloom and sadness of the 
grave. But look again ; there, on the right side of the 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


225 


meadow, are grand old forest trees, sending a deepening 
shadow over the waving grass and nodding clover, and 
keeping sentry, as it were, over a small plot, fenced in by a 
tastefully painted fence. Flowers are clustering inside ; but 
still, you can plainly see the white marble pointing to sev- 
eral graves, and right in the centre rises a single monument, 
surmounted by a cross and anchor. Tears trembled in 
Agnes’s dark eyes. 

“ Death ! death !” she bitterly exclaimed, “ even here he 
comes. Oh, man, how vain is thy boasted strength ! every- 
where a grim tyrant follows thee. Flee where thou wilt, 
he is still there !” 

/Stepping up near the picture, she gazed more intently 
upon it. Directly over the cemetery the light clouds had 
parted, only the blue expanse of unfathomed space smiled 
down upon it; ‘and, as Agnes looked, a revulsion came 
over her feelings. It seemed the opening of the heavens, 
through which the soul travels home to its God. Rever- 
ently folding her hands, she murmured : 

“Death, a tyrant, following man everywhere, did I say? 
Oh, who can gaze upon that radiant opening with such bit- 
ter thoughts. A tyrant? No: 

‘ Death is a path that must be trod, 

If man would ever pass to God.’ ” 

She returned to her chair, and, sinking into it, glanced 
round her room. It was strange after such musings, but 
pride and pity struggled in that glance. It would have 
puzzled a philosopher to have witnessed the haughtiness and 
disdain of her heart at one moment, and its deep solemnity 
and religious fervor at another. Again she thought of lit- 
tle Mark, and tears of vexation passed over her cheeks. 

10 * 


226 


AGNES ; OE, 


Suddenly starting up, site brushed the dark ringlets from 
her brow, and wiped the tear-drops away. 

“ Preach humility to me ! Oh, the sanctified pride of 
the Pharisees ! Crush my feelings, despise my wishes, and 
this is parental affection!” Bowing her head upon her 
hands, she burst into a passionate flood of tears. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


227 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ Martha, what makes you look so sad ? Why don’t 
you talk to me ?” Little Mark leaned against her knee, and 
looked up earnestly into her face. 

“ You see, Mark, I am busy.” 

“ Well, then, if you can’t talk, will you not sing for me? 
Sing some of the dear songs you used to sing in Stanton, 
‘ Glendalough,’ or the ‘ Bells of Shandon,’ or ‘ Arp,by’s 
Daughter.’ ” 

“ No, Marky, I cannot.” 

“They will not hear you if you sing them low. Do, 
Martha, just do ; you don’t know how I long to hear them 
once more.” 

“ If I could, Marky, I would, but I can’t.” 

“ Why can’t you?” he asked, with the pertinacity of 
childhood. 

“ Because — because — child, don’t tease me, I tell you I 
can’t.” 

“ Does it make your head ache ?” 

“ No, but my heart.” 

He looked at her silently for a few moments, then slowly 
went back to his play of arranging little trees, which Mr. 
Hilton had brought him from the bazaar, into groves and 
avenues. 

Martha was thinking how singular it was that Mr. and 
Mrs. Hilton should so strongly insist on retaining her in 
their service when they could not be blind to Agnes’s deep 


228 


AGNES; 01?. 


aversion for her. Knowing her pride, she could easily ac- 
count for her dislike, but the partiality of her parents 
seemed to her strange and mysterious. She had not the 
vanity to suppose that she filled the station of seamstress 
in their family better than any other would. She faith- 
fully performed her duties, but others would do the same. 
Mr. and Mrs. Hilton had a tender love for Agnes, then why 
so indifferent to her wishes ? Why provoke so bitter an 
estrangement? Agnes no longer spoke to them, and a 
gloom, like the gloom of death, seemed thrown over the 
whole household. The servants shook their heads and sur- 
mised many a cause for the change, but, to Martha’s great 
relief, never the right one. Ought she to stay? How 
many times^had she asked herself that question even after 
she had promised Mrs. Hilton she would not go. But why 
should she insist on keeping her when her presence made 
Agnes so wretched ? There was something in that she 
could not solve ; strange thoughts began to trouble her. 
Mrs. Hilton had, on several occasions, let fall words that 
left a deep impression on her mind. One day that she was 
going into her room for some directions in her sewing, as 
she approached the half-open door, she heard Mr. Hilton 
say : “ I tell you she knows nothing about it, Martha — ” 
her rap cut short his remark. He went out, and after Mrs. 
Hilton had given her instructions, she paused, and looking 
in her face, said : “ That flower,” pointing to a piece of em- 
broidery on which she was work^g, “ rises up plainly be- 
fore you, but not plainer, Martha, than the past to others 
then seizing her hand, she pressed it till it almost forced a 
cry of pain from her. “ Go, now, go,” she said, suddenly 
releasing it, “ and remember, for the sake of that past, you 
are dear to us.” Martha returned to her room, wondering 
much how she could be connected with Mrs. Hilton’s past ; 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


229 


wondering, too, to see one so quiet and calm so greatly 
moved. At another time, after conversing awhile with 
little Mark, she turned to Martha, and observed: “He is 
happy now ; pray God he may never know sorrow like his 
poor mother !” Martha looked up surprised, and she con- 
tinued : “ She is alone, and long has a sore spot rankled in 
her heart ; long has she wept over the one wrong step in life 
and the wretchedness — ” She suddenly checked herself, and, 
while a flush suffused her cheeks, abruptly changed the 
conversation. Martha knew that her mother was a widow, 
and might, therefore, be called alone ; that she had seen 
great sorrow in the poverty, sickness, and death which had 
visited them ; but the one wrong step, what could that be ? 
Never was a more pious* gentle mother than hers. What 
could Mrs. Hilton mean? She had often, before and after 

their removal to A , caught her mother in tears, and 

when she asked the cause of them, had invariably received 
the answer : “ Bitter memories are over me, Martha, leave 
me, and pray for me.” Could it be possible that her loved 
mother was weeping for some early error ? They had only 
lately become acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Hilton, yet 
they seemed to be aware what that error was. How came 
they to kno\v it? Could her mother have confided in 
them what she had always concealed from her own chil- 
dren ? No, she could not have done it ; they must have 
come to the knowledge some other way. But what way ? 
And their past, what had it to do with her ? She was com- 
pletely puzzled ; felt almost tempted to ask her mother 
what it ail meant. But no, she must not ; if her poor 
mother had aught in the past to reproach herself for, she 
must not be the one to refer her to it. Neither would she 
tell her of Agnes’s av^ersion for her and little Mark. ' Alfred 
and she rejoiced in his good fortune ; should she cloud 


230 AGXES; OE, 

their few moments of happiness ? No ; so long as she stayed, 
she would say nothing to them about it. And she would 
try to be more cheerful when she visited home ; she could 
see they worried about the change in her, and should 
she be so selfish as to think only of her own trials, forget- 
ting that they, too, had theirs ? No ; she would laugh and 
talk as of old. She would exert herself to the utmost to 
make those happy who were so dear to her. What subject 
of conversation could she manage in her present state? 
She could not join their congratulations about Mark. She 
could not speak of Agnes without wounding charity ; she 
had made a resolution, and, with God’s help, she would 
keep it, never ter say an unkind word against her. ’Tis 
true, she might tell of Mr. and Atrs. Hilton’s love for little 
Mark, but that would be constantly contrasted in her mind 
witt her dislike, and it would — she knew her own weak- 
ness — in spite of herself, cast a gloom over her. But she 
would speak of Stanton and the happy days they had 
known there; that was a subject they all loved. Her 
musings were interrupted by Mark sweeping the little trees 
from the table into a box ; laying the box on a chair, and 
approaching her : 

-» “ Martha,” he asked, “ when are you going home agmn ?” 

“ Not till Saturday.” 

“ And what is to-day? let me see, it is — it is — ” 

“ It is Wednesday, Mark.” 

“Yes, so it is. Monday I got my geography lesson, and 
traced places on the map ; Tuesday I learned a line of the 
multiplication table, and to-day I was at the geography 
again.” 

“ Did you miss any of it ?” 

“ No, I repeated every word, and Mrs. Hilton said 1 
mustn’t study any more till to-morrow ; that I might come 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


231 


in, see you, and play with my trees. After dinner, I will 
write my copy out ; that, you know, will not be studying.” 

“ No, Mark ; but have you got past the w’s ?” 

“ I finished those you set me, but Mrs. Hilton said I did 
them so badly, that she' would set me another copy of 
them.” 

“ Did you blot them ?” 

“ No, Martha ; but I wrote them so fast that Mrs. Hilton 
said there was no form of a letter about them ; she would 
set me some more, and I must ’write them slower and take 
mpre pains ; and so I will. You don’t know how pleased 
she was with my v’s ; and she said a very little care would " 
make my w’s just as good.” He raised his hand, pushed 
back the short golden curls from his forehead, and laid his 
head on her lap. 

“ Are you tired, Mark ?” she asked. ‘ 

“ No, but I am going to think a little.” 

She smiled, stooped, and kissed him. “ And what is my 
little brother going to think about ?” 

“That which keeps coming in my head all the time. 
When I am studying I have to put it away, and mind my 
lesson. When I am playing — for Mrs. Hilton says I must 
play a part of the time, to be healthy, that little boys will 
get sick if they study and think too much — I remember 
the fields and maple groves of Stanton, but now I am just 
going to think of Mr. and Mrs. Hilton’s kindness to me. I 
love them best of anybody in the world, except mother, 
you, and Alfred.” 

“ Well, think away, Marky ; it is not every one that has 
so pleasant a subject to dwell upon.” 

Soine time passed, when, hearing the hall-door open, and 
a step in the passage, he quickly raised his head : “ That 
is Mr. Hilton,” he said, “ I must go down to meet him.” 


232 


AGNES ; OE, 


“ Wait a moment, Mark. Did not Mr. and Mrs. Hilton 
request yon to call them father and mother ?” 

“ Yes, Martha; and I mean to do it as soon as T can just 
get used to the thought.” He hastily left the room, and 
Martha, while her fingers were busy with the needle, again 
pursued her train of thought. She must try to make home 
happy ; it was her duty, the duty of every Christian, . by 
kind words, gentle, obliging manners, and tender considera- 
tions for the feelings of those around them, to throw a halo 
of peace and good-will around the family hearth. It might 
be trying for her to laugh, when she felt much more like 
crying. It might be difficult to speak of pleasant scenes 
when her heart was sad and heavy, but she would pray tO 
God to assist her. It was no dissimulation in her to con- 
ceal her uneasiness from Alfred and her mother ; as, so long 
as she remained in her present place, it would be worse 
than foolish to tell them. It would only destroy their hap- 
piness without restoring her own. Father Joseph knew all 
about it ; she had confided all her sorrows to him, and he 
had promised to pray for her, approved of her prudence, 
and advised her to stay. She paused in her sewing, crossed 
herself, and said a little prayer. Saturday again came 
round ; her week’s sewing finished, she put on her bonnet 
and shawl, and with the usual quantity of apples and cakes 
from the kind, thoughtful Mrs. Hilton, she set out for 
home. The widow was busy preparing the evening meal 
as she came in. Ellen and Clara, who had been watchino- 
at the window, rushed to meet her; tenderly kissing them, 
she removed her shawl and bonnet, and went about helping 
her mother. A smile played round her features, and her step 
was light and buoyant. “ Mother,” she said, “ would you not 
like some of these apples Mrs, Hilton sent stewed for supper? 
They will give a relish to the bread and butter.” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


233 


Yes, Martha ; and Alfred will like them very much.” 

“ Has he to go back to the store after tea ?” 

“ No, this evening Mr. Simonds said he need not return.” 

She quickly pared and cored several large apples, put 
them in the saucepan, and pouring a little water over them, 
placed them on the stove. They were done and sweet- 
ened, the table set, the meal all ready as Alfred came in. 
Warmly shaking her hand, he turned to his mother and 
explained : 

“Martha’s herself again. Why, bless you, Martha, I 
would hardly know you, you look so much like your former 
self! I heard you laugh, I positively did, as I neared the 
door.' Now tell me what, in the name of wonder, brought 
that long face to you, and tied up» your tongue?” 

Her heart ached then, notwithstanding her smiles ; that 
very afternoon had she received cruel taunts from Agnes, 
been called hypocritical, artful, and insinuating ; had seen 
little Mark pushed rudely aside, and a glance cast upon him 
that would have been enough to annihilate him, if glances 
could annihilate. No wonder, then, that her voice trembled 
a little, and her laugh sounded somewhat forced as she an- 
swered : 

“ Never mind, Alfred, how it came or went ; we are here 
to make each other happy. Move, Ellen, dear, and let me 
sit opposite to him.” 

Kind attentions to each, and pleasant social conversation 
enlivened the meal ; when it was ended, Martha cleared the 
table, washed the dishes, and swept up the crumbs. The 
widow resumed her sewing ; Alfred, sunk into the easy-chair, 
with his feet on another, watched her every movement. 
How dear to him was that gentle, pale-faced sister! Little 
Ellen and Clara, seated at the table, were looking over one 
of Murky ’s picture-books ; xA.lfred had found time to explain 


234 


AGNES ; OE, 


the meaning of every one, and now more than ever they 
enjoyed them. 

“ Mother,” said Martha, taking a seat beside her, “ don’t 
sew any more to-night, I know you must he tired.” 

“ But I want to finish the jacket, so that Alfred can take 
it to the store Monday morning.” 

“ How much more have you to do to it ?” 

“ The sleeves to put in, and the buttons to sew on.” 

“ Oh, I can do that ; just let me have it.” 

“ No, Martha, you have been sewing all day ; and you, 
too, must be tired.” 

“But I am quite refreshed no\v, so let me have it. 
That’s a dear, good mother,” she said, as the widow reluc- 
tantly yielded it to her. 

“Martha,” said Alfred, “ what kind of a person is Agnes 
Hilton ? Is she not very proud ? her countenance indicates 
as much.” 

A pained expression for a moment rested on Martha’s 
face ; but quietly raising her eyes from her work, she asked : 
“ Alfred, do you remember the picnic Father James got up 
the first year he came to Stanton ?” 

“ Right well, Martha ?” 

“ And do you recollec hat there was among the chil- 
dren a little boy that fell into .a great passion because he was 
not allowed to carry one of the baskets ?” 

Alfred laughed. “Yes, yes, Martha! I remember that 
too. I believe the little boy was a brother of yours.” 

“Not Mark?” she said with a smil^ ** 

“ No, indeed ! not him, but the other one, Alfred by 
name. But what has that little fellow and his quick temper 
to Mo with my question?” He affectionately placed his 
hand on her shoulder. 

“ Simply this, Alfred, that as Father James told you, 


/ 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 235 

when, afterwards ashamed of your violence, you ashed him 
why so wiched a passion had been given you, it was, that, 
fighting and struggling against it, and thereby gaining its 
opposite* virtue, your diadem might not lack its crowning 
gem of glory. And do you recollect he told you that every 
one had a predominant passion, against which to contend : 
pride, anger, sloth? Now, yours was anger; another’s 
might be pride ; another’s sloth, and so on.” 

“Yes, Martha ; I remember all that he said. And so you 
think Agnes Hilton’s is pride ?” 

“ I do not say it is, Alfred ; but it would be nothing very' 
surprising if it was. You know she is very beautiful, learned, 
and accomplished, has an elegant home, and is the flattered 
child of society.” 

“ I thought she was of a retired turn, and cared but little 
for society.” 

“No, she does not; but there are many who try, but 
try in vain, to get on more intimate terms with her. I 
really believe her very exclusiveness makes her more sought 
after.” 

“ But why should she be so exclusive ?” 

“ I am sure I cannot tell ; but it seems her tastes are very 
refined. Her friends are sensible, intelligent, and free frdm 
all affectation.” 

“ And, I suppose, like herself, proud as they can be.” 

“ Not at all ; they are truly pious.’’ 

“ Pity, then, they don’t give her a few lessons in humil- 
ity.” Alfred’s face colored ; he remembered a cold, scathing 
glance she had favored him with 6ne day that, by Mr. Hil- 
ton’s pressing invitation, he had called to see Mark. Mar- 
tha raised her meek, pleading eyes to his. 

“ Alfred, don’t allow any uncharitable feeling to sully your 
Boul.’^ Alfred was silent for several moiiltnts ; at length he 


23G 


A NES ; OR, 


exclaimed : “ There, Martha ; I am calm now. I have been 
putting Father James’s advice into practice.” 

“ That advice about saying ‘ Our Father,’ an4 ‘ Hail 
Mary,’ whenever you feel excited to anger ?” 

“Yes, Martha; and it was the best advice I ever got. 
‘Alfred,’ said Father James, ‘when you are tempted to 
anger, never allow yourself to speak till you have repeated 
an ‘ Onr Father ’ and ‘ Hail Mary when bitter memories 
crowd upon you, do the same, and when dejected and cast 
down, raise your heart with these beautiful prayers. The 
blessed Saviour taught man the first ; the Angel Gabriel and 
Saint Elizabeth, inspired by the Holy Ghost, addressed the 
fore part of the second to her who was chosen to be the 
mother of God ; and the Church, also inspired by the Holy 
Ghost, added the latter, and finished it. In every trouble, 
say them, my child, say them.’ I promised him I would ; 
and oh, Martha, what do I not owe to them ? Now, as to 
anger, let me tell you that one who is employed by Mr. 
Simonds will find enough to try him ; he is a good mana- 
ger and a fair dealer, honest to his hands, and faithful to his 
word. Excellent traits, these, Martha ; but, like every other 
mortal, he has, his drawbacks ; he is passionate himself, and 
the most imperious man living. For this reason he can sel- 
dom retain one in his service the second year ; they generally 
get enough of him the firsi. I only engaged with him for 
three months, to fill out the year of a clerk who had indig- 
nantly left before the expiration of his term,” 

“ And did he forfeit his salary, Alfred 
“Yes, every cent of it; but Mi*; Simonds paid him up 
for the time he stayed, and let liim go. Every one who 
knew him, prophesied I would be glad when the thi'ce 
months were out; but, instead of that, I have engaged 
again, and this time for a year. Well, do you know, it is 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


237 


all by the ‘ Our Father’ and ‘ Hail Mary,’ I have been able 
to do it. Whenever he begins his lordly, domineering ways 
over me, and I feel anger rising in my heart, I forthwith 
commence an ‘ Our Father,’ then follows the ‘ Hail Mary ;’ 
and i>y the time l^hat is finished calmness is restored ; or, 
if not, I continue them till it is. One day a lady came in, 
made a purchase of ten dollars, handed me what I supposed 
was a ten-dollar bill, and left the store. I still had the bill 
in my hand when I was called to wait on another customer, 
a gentleman ; he, also, made a ten-dollar purchase, and 
handed me a twenty-dollar bill to change. I reached out 
the bill I held in my hand, and, glancing at it, saw the lady 
had made a mistake, it was a hundred, instead of a ten 
dollar, bill, she had given me. I was provoked with myself 
for not having noticed it before she turned from the counter ; 
I knew, if I should tell Mr. Simonds, he would rave at my 
stupidity ; and, may-be, insinuate dishonest inteations. 
Giving the gentleman his change, I thought I would say 
nothing of it, and when I came home to dinner, I would 
go round by the lady’s residence and call on her.” 

“ Then, you fortunately knew her ?” 

“Yes; I had seen her several times. It was Mrs. Simp- 
son. But this arrangement did not -quiet me ; I was ill at 
ease. I began to fear, if she should discover her mistake 
before I could see her, she might recollect where it was 
made, return, and, if I happened not to see her come in, 
walk up to Mr. Simonds, explain the matter to him, and he, 
from my silence, would at once accuse me of downright 
dishonesty. As soon as I could, I drew’ him aside, and 
told him all about it. He gazed at me silently at first ; I saw 
by the red, swollen face, a storm was gathering, and oh, 
Martha, you should have heard it burst on me ; or, rather, 
you should not, for, I verily believe, it would have fright- 


238 


AGNES ; OE, 


ened your gentle soul from your body. He declared a 
blind fool would have seen there was no X on the bill ; he 
wouldn’t have his reputation ruined by any smooth-faced 
knave in his employ. I told him it was a mistake I would 
be most happy to rectify, and that mistakes would happen 
with the best intentioned people. ‘ Yes, yes, young man, I un- 
derstand you !’ he exclaimed, ‘ mistakes will happen. A very 
comfortable doctrine that for young gonls to preach, whose ex- 
travagance outruns their income — very comfortable doctrine, 
when the mistakes are all ion their side !’ and from that he 
went on till every feeling of anger in my heart was aroused. 
I was about retorting sharplj^, when the ‘ Our Father’ came 
into my mind. I was trembling with rage, but I repeated 
it and the ‘ Hail Mary,’ and I continued repeating them till 
he cooled down. When I came out of the counting-room, 
who should I see but Mrs. Simpson; she was inquiring for 
Mr. Simonds. I immediately walked up to her : ‘ Mrs. 
Simpson,’ I said, ‘ you made a slight mistake this morning, 
and I did not see it till after you left the store. ‘ T handed 
you a hundred, instead of a ten dollar bill?’ ‘ Yes, madam !’ I 
replied ; ‘ here it is.’ She took it, handed me the right one, 
and returning to Mr. Simonds, I told him Mrs. Simpson 
had called again, and the mistake was rectified. ‘ It is well 
for your sake, young man, that it is !’ was all the answer he 
deigned me. My heart was full of gall and wormwood 
against him for his base insinuations ; but, still, while wait- 
ing on the customers, the silent ‘ Our Father’ and ‘ Hail 
Mary’ went up ; before I came home to dinner every feel- 
ing of resentment had died away — I was as happy and 
light-hearted as little Ellen or Clara. Now, Martha, they 
may tell you it is just as good a rule, when in a passion, to 
count ten, twenty, or a hundred, according -to the urgency 
of the case, before allowing yourself to speak; but, from 


VIEWS OF CATUOLICITY. 


239 


experience, I know it is not. I bad been told to do this ; 
told, too, that it was tlie advice of Jefferson to his name- 
sake, and, of course, had weighty enough authority to be 
followed. I followed it. With what result ? Listen, 
Martha; when angry, keeping myself counting prevented 
me saying many a foolish thing. So far, it was good ; but, 
although my tongue was chained, bitter feelings rankled 
deep in my heart, I think even bitterer than if I had spoken 
out. , I have often caught a glimpse of my face, in a glass, 
at such times, and I would hardly have known myself, there 
was such a hard, determined look about the mouth and 
eyes. For hours — even days — I could scarcely think of 
any thing else but the harshness and injustice with which I 
had been treated ; I could not bring myself to speak in the 
old friendly way to those who had offended me ; a cold, 
precise formality marked my bearing to them. I had been 
injured; I had not retorted; the counting had kept me 
from that, and now I should have my revenge ; they should 
see, if I was silent, they could not abuse me with impunity. 
Pride, Martha ; deep, sullen pride, was getting fast posses- 
sion of my heart. Father James saw it all ; at a time when 
I had been tauntingly reminded of the falling off of father’s 
school, by one of the pupils of the new academy, and made 
no reply in return, he took me aside and said : ‘Alfred,. you 
did well to be silent.’ I was pleased with his approval, and 
at once told him the method that had been pointed out to 
me, and that I was determined to follow it. ‘ But,’ said I, 

‘ Father, although Alfred Clement speaks not, he remem- 
bers.’ ‘That is just what I expected,’ he replied, ‘just 
what I expected. Your counting may do very well for 
those who have no higher sense of duty than what cold, 
selfish philosophy points out. It may make a man worldly 
prudent ; but, • like the maxims of the world, it falls far 


240 


AGNES ; OE, 


short of its aim — it will never make him happy. Alfred, I 
will point out another way — the Christian’s way — it will not 
only keep you silent in the heat of passion, but will enable 
you to forgive, and forgiving will restore peace to your 
heart.’ Then he told me, whenever excited to anger, in- 
stead of counting, to say an ‘ Our Father,’ and ‘ Hail Mary.’ 
In the ‘ Our Father,’ he .said, ‘ you pray to be forgiven as 
you forgive others. Repeating it at such times, the meek 
counsels of the blessed Saviour will recur to you, and pro- 
fessing his doctrine, you will feel urged on to practise his 
precepts, after praying not to be led into temptation ; and 
to be delivered from all evil, you will address your petition 
to her, by whose intercession the first miracle of the Saviour 
was wrought, even before the time of his public manifesta- 
tion had arrived — the changing of the water into wine, at 
the wedding in Cana of Galilee. Mary’s power was great 
on earth — how much greater in heaven ! In her poor home 
in Nazareth, the angel Gabriel saluted her, full of grace, 
declaring the Lord was with her, and that she was blest 
among women ; and the Church, therefore, to the Angel’s 
salutation, has added an earnest appeal for her prayers.’ 
And then, in a more impressive manner, he went over, and 
told me concerning these prayers, what I have already re- 
peated to you. Well, Martha, I gave up the counting, and 
adopted the ‘ Our Father,’ and ‘ Hail Mary,’ and now I 
don’t want to say any thing in self-praise but ” 

“ But you merely wish to speak, Alfred, of the success 
of this course, to point the superiority of Christian rules 
over worldly prudence ?” 

“ Exactly so, Martha ; while adhering to the countino* 
while excited, I was silent, but wretched, sullen, and morose ; 
since adopting Father James’s advice, I am not only silent 
at such times, but the hard, bitter, and revengeful feelings 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


241 


melt into Christian meekness and forgiveness. I forgive, 
and, as Father James told me, peace is restored to my heart, 
and with that peace I am happy. When disagreeable mem- 
ories rise before me, as they did to-night, when speaking 
of Agnes Hilton, the ‘ Our Father’ and ‘ Hail Mary’ are sure 
to drive them away ; and when I am tired and discouraged, 
and begin to contrast our present with our former home, 
they are the. friends that point out the many blessings that 
still surround us. We have our daily bread, we are not 
led into', temptation, and our home, though humble and 
poor, is peaceful and happy ; and I, your great, awkward, 
and ungainly brother, have the best sister in the world.” 

A tear stole down Martha’s cheek, and her voice, soft 
and low, w^as slightly tremulous. “Alfred,” she said, “ can 
1 be a better, kinder sister than you are a brother ? How 
eagerly Ellen and Clara watch every night your coming in ! 
What a halo your bright, cheerful face throws round our 
little room ! And how generously your earnings go for the 
support and comforts of the family !” 

“ And do not yours go for the same ?” 

“ I earn but little in comparison to you.” 

• “ That makes no difference ; that little goes just as gen- 
erously.” 

“ That may be ; but I often think what would' we do 
without yod. Oh ! Alfred, may God bless you, and ma}’ 
each of us, Ellen, Clara, and myself, as faithfully perform 
our parts.” 

“ Martha, you make me ashamed of myself ; I am not 
half as good as you think me. But come, mother, say 
something ; I have not heard you speak since tea-time.” 

A smile was on the widow’s face 5 love and gratitude 
beamed from her meek blue eyes. “ Alfred,” she replied, 
“I prefer listening to you. Y/hile you are talking, T feel 
11 


242 


AGNES ; OK, 


how little it takes to make the Christian happy ; his reli- 
gion, and its holy maxims, are such a boundless source of. 
happiness, that outward circumstances can only momenta- 
rily affect him. Life is no parched and dreary waste to 
him ; deep in his heart is a fountain that never fails ; thus, 
fresh flowers are ever springing up in his path, let that path 
be ever so br^mbly and thorny. But I see the children 
have fallen asleep ; I will awaken them, have them say their 
prayers, and put them to bed. Poor little dears, the day is 
long to them ; night finds them weary !” She roused them 
up, and while kneeling at their mother’s knee, saying their 
prayers, Martha and Alfred opened a book, the “ Following 
of Christ,” and together read from its inspiring pages. 
Scarcely had the cheeks of little Ellen and Clara touched 
the soft pillows before their eyes were closed in sleep. 
Awhile the widow lingered at the bedside, then pressing a 
mother’s fond kiss on the forehead of each, she returned 
to her seat. 

“ Mother !” said Martha, raising her eyes from the book, 
“ I finished the jacket, rolled it up, and placed it in the 
chest. Alfred, you must not forget it Monday morning.” 

“ No, Martha ; and now, while I think of it, I must tell 
you a project I have in mind.” 

“What is it?” 

“ It is to have a ride one of these days. I will get leave 
of absence for one day from Mr. Simonds, and then, Mar- 
tha, you and I will leave the crowded city far behind. Oh ! 
it will be glorious to get- a sight once more of wide- 
stretching fields, crooked rail fences, and snug country 
houses ; it will bring dear old Stanton fresh to our minds.” 

Martha’s countenance wore a pleased expression ; but, 
after a little reflection, she said : Alfred, would it not be 
better to wait till your year is out ; then, without losing 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


243 


time, after making your engagements, before commencing 
another term, we might, mother, Ellen, Clara — all of us, 
go out to Stanton for a few days. The ride on the cars 
will not cost so much as the hire of a carriage, and we will 
all have such a pleasant time. We can call on Father James, 
the Donaldsons, Fitzhughs, and all our old friends.” 

Alfred seized her hand. “ God bless you, Martha,” he 
exclaimed, “ that is just what we will do. We’ll wait till 
my year is up, and then we’ll see old Stanton again. We 
will visit the church, father’s school-house, the fields, or- 
chards, maple groves, and all the dear places. Do you 
think, Martha, that Mr. Hilton Avould let Mark go too ?” 

“Certainly, Alfred, it would not be in his kind heart to 
refuse. But, as we are to receive in the morning, we will 
now dismiss the thoughts of Stanton from our minds;'! 
will again open ‘ The Following of Christ,’ at book fourth, 
chapter xi., and read two or three chapters on the prepara- 
tion of the soul for holy communion.” 

“ And, after that,” said the widow, “ we will say our 
prayers, and, in the name of God, go to our rest.” 

With grave attention the reading was listened to, and 
when Martha closed the book for awhile, they bowed their 
heads in meditation; then, kneeling, the widow said the 
prayers, while Martha and Alfred, with fervent devotion, 
made the responses. ^ 

When Martha had retired, she thought of Father James’s 
advice to Alfred. Not only when excited to anger was he to 
say an “ Our Father” and “ Hail Mary,” but when dejected 
and cast down. Certainly, against Agnes Hilton she cher- 
ished no hard or revengeful feeling ; she would not injure 
her if she could ; she did not hate her ; so afraid was she 
that any such sentiment should enter her soul, that every 
day, morning and night, she said a prayer for her ; she had 


244 


AGIO!S f OSj 


ever spoken respectfully of her, and in no way had she ex- 
posed her pride and haughtiness ; still it was wrong in her 
to be so cast down; like Alfred, instead of brooding over 
her unkindness, and the misfortunes which had visited her 
family, she would keep saying an “Our Father” and “Hail 
Mary.” This would make her, not only in appearance, but 
in reality, happy. God was her father and she was his 
child ; why then should she despond ? He would do all for 
the best, and she would resign herself to his holy will. 
With a prayer that she might be made worthy to receive 
her blessed Saviour in the morning, and might obtain from 
him a patient and submissive spirit, she closed her eyes and 
was soon asleep. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


245 , 


CHAPTER XV. 

/ It was a clear, cold morning after the storm. In the sitting- 
room, reading one of those stories which seem life put on 
paper, and which preach to the young touching lessons of 
home duties, was Becky Starr; grandfather and grandmother, 
in their comfortable easy-chairs, were sitting by the fire; 
the troubled expression had passed from grandfather’s face, 
but still he looked weary and worn ; grandmother’s calm, 
meditative eyes beamed with a mild, gentle light ;*her knit- 
ting-work was in her hand, and the clicking of the needles 
fell musically on the ear ; Jane was busy in the next room, 
helping her mother in the morning’s work. 

“ Becky, child,” said grandfather, after awhile watching 
her countenance, “ you seem greatly interested in that little 
book.” 

“ Not so greatly interested, grandfather, but that I can 
lay it aside if you wish me to talk to you.” 

“ No, child, no. If you draw amusement or instruction 
from its pages, read on. I must not be selfish ; I have 
been too much so.” 

Becky at once closed the volume, and, moving up to her 
grandfather, seated herself on the stool at his feet. “ Grand- 
father,” she said, laying her hand on his knee, “ you must 
not say that ; you are aged, and it is our duty to attend to 
your comforts, and reverence your slightest wish.” 

“ Child,” he replied, covering with his broad palm the 


216 


AGNES ; OE, 


little hand, “ it is not every one that thinks so. The younor 
are apt to look upon the old as selfish and exacting. Their 
reminiscences are tedious to them, their ways disagreeable, 
and their presence irksome. They do not like the bowed 
form, gray hair, and wrinkled brow always before them, re- 
minding them what, if they live, they must surely come to.” 

“Grandfather, this should not be; the bowed form, gray 
hair, and wrinkled brow, tell of a long journey drawing to 
a close — of a goal almost won.” • 

“ What goal, my child ?” » 

“ The goal of peace and rest, after the toils and troubles 
of life.” 

Grandfather mused awhile, and said: “Yes, child, the 
^ goal they are nearing is of peace and rest, if a sure faith — 
the faith Christ bequeathed to man — is lighting their way ; 
but if it is not, they are like Johnson’s ‘Obidah’s Journey 
of a Day.’ They find themselves overtaken by night, 
darkness obscuring their path, and tempests gathering 
around them. They know not, child, whether they are ad- 
vancing on to safety or destruction ; a dreadful uncertainty 
hangs over them, and, conscious that in the morning and 
noontime they neglected to secure themselves a sure path, 
terror and remorse seize upon them. This, child, is what 
makes the closing scene so fearful to many an aged one.”, 

“ But, even then, grandfather, they should not despair. 
God’s all-powerful hand is able to draw them into the right 
path, the narrow path, which leads to everlasting rest and 
repose.” 

“I believe you, child. Not more grateful to Obidah was 
the light from the hermit’s cottage than have been the 
teachings from those books you brought to us.” Taking up 
his staff, he arose. “Mother, we will return to our room, 
and Becky, child, come with us; while we are too weary to 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 2:7 

read, we will listen to you on the subject you promised to 
speak to us about.” 

Becky took up some netting from the table, and followed 
her grandparents to their room. When they were seated, 
grandfather said : “ Child, you recollect you were to tell us 
the difference between the Mass and the Communion of 
your Church.” 

“Yes, grandfather, I do; but what I said then, I must 
again repeat. You must not expect me to be able to give 
so full or learned an explanation of this or any other ques- 
tion relating to our beautiful religion, as you will find in 
the works you are daily reading.” 

“ Child, -your grandmother and I do not expect you will, 
but even while resting we wish to be learning ; the little 
you will tell us will help us in our search.” 

“ In the blessed Sacrament, grandfather, we receive under 
one kind, the form of bread only, the body and blood, soul 
and divinity of Jesus Christ into our souls for their nourish- 
ment and support. In the Mass,4he sacrifice consists in 
the separate consecration of the bread and wine into the 
body and blood, soul and divinity of Christ, and ofiering the 
same to the Eternal Father, as a perpetual memorial of the 
death of his Son, and a continuation of the same to the end 
of time.” 

“ Child,” said grandfather, “ I have derived much satis- 
faction in reading your books ; I see plainly in unity, apos- 
tolicity, and universality — marks which must, of necessity, 
point out the Church of Christ — the Catholic Church, above 
all others, bears the palm. The solemnity of her ritual 
tends greatly to increase fervor and devotion, and the system 
of her teaching implants firmly in the hearts of her chil- 
dren the seeds of morality and virtue ; but it seems strange 
to me that she should, in these passages, take the literal 


248 


AGNES ; OE, 


meaning of our Saviour’s words. In John, x. 9, he says: 
am the door ; by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, 
and shall go in and out, and find pasture.’ And again, 
XV. 5 : ‘I am the vine, ye are the branches : He that abideth 
in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit.’ 
These are taken in a metaphorical sense ; why not the ex- 
pression of the bread being his body, and the wine his 
blood?” 

“ A superficial glance at these passages might lead to 
such a conclusion : but, grandfather and grandmother, if we 
for a moment consider the nature of metaphors, we will at 
orice see there is a vast difference between saying, ‘ I am 
the door, I am the vine, ye the branches,’ and ‘ This is my 
body, this is my blood.’ A metaphor is a figure founded 
on the resemblance which one object bears to another. 
Christ says ; I am the door, because through him we enter 
heaven ; by him heaven is open to us. In the same way he 
is the vine, we the branches, beca,use it is from the vine the 
branches derive their nourishment and support, and arc 
able to bring forth fruit ; and it is through him, and from 
him, we receive the life-giving grace to bring forth good 
works. But, grandfather and grandmother, in the blessed 
institution wherein he bequeathed himself to us, his expres- 
sion carries not the same import. Mark me here : in saying 
he was a door and a vine, he did not say a door and a vine 
was him ; he was a door and vine, because in some re- 
spects he resembled them, because he possessed some of 
their properties ; but at the La,st Supper he said of the bread 
that it was his body ; and of the wine, that it was his blood. 
Taking bread, he blessed, and broke, and gave to his disci- 
ples, and said : ‘ Take ye and eat : This is my body.’ And 
taking the chalice, he gave thanks, and gave to them, say- 
ing ; ‘ Drink ye all of this. For this is my blood of the 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


249 ' 


New Testament, whicli shall be shed for many for the re- 
mission of sin,’^ Here the language is plain and simple. 
Mo metaphor was needed to open their minds to the recep- 
tion of this divine mystery ; already had he prepared them 
for it. In John, vi., to show there was nothing impossible 
to God, he fed five thousand with five loaves and two fishes, 
and when they were filled, and the disciples had gathered 
up the fragments, filling with them twelve baskets, he de- 
parted from them ; but so struck were they with the mira- 
cle, that they sought him out, and then it was he began 
conversing with them on the bread of life. When he said : 
‘ I am the living bread which came down from heaven-. If 
any man eat of this bread he shall live forever : and the 
bread which I will give, is my flesh for the life of the world. ’f 
The Jews, grandfather and grandmother, as the sacred text 
tells us, debated among themselves, saying : ‘How can this 
man give us his flesh to eat and Jesus answered them, 
saying : ‘ Amen, amen, I say unto you, unless you eat the 
flesh of the Son of Man, and drink his blood,, you shall not 
have life in you. He that eateth my flesh, and drinketh 
my blood, hath everlasting life : and I will raise him up at 
the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed ; and my blood 
is drink indeed.’§ Now many of his disciples thought this 
a hard saying, and to confirm the truth of his assertion, 
and at the same time correct their gross apprehension of 
eating his body and drinking his blood in a vulgar and car- 
nal manner, he spoke of his ascension as an instance of his 
power and divinity, and that his body and blood v;as not to 
be partaken of as they supposed. But many left him, and 
walked no more with him. ‘When Jesus said to the 


* St. Matthew, xxvi. 26, 2 b 
f St. John, vi. 51, 52. 

11 * 


X St. John, vi. 53.* 

§ St. John, vi. 54, 65, 56. 


250 


AGNES ; OE, 


twelve: Will you also go away? Peter, answering in tl;e 
name of his brethren, replied : Lord, to whom shall we go ? 
Thou hast the words of eternal life.’"^ They could not un- 
derstand more than the others, but they submitted, their 
reason to faith, and Christ rewarded their submission by 
explaining to them at the Last Supper how they could par- 
take of his body and blood, free from a gross or carnal 
manner. Taking bread, he gave thanks and brake, and 
gave to them, saying : ‘ This is my body which is given for 
you : Do this for a commemoration of me.’ In like man- 
ner, the chalice, also, after he had supped, saying : ‘ This is 
the chalice, the New Testament in my blood, which shall be 
shed for you.’f The disciples knew his power. They had 
seen him perform miracles, and the miracle he then per- 
formed before them did not astonish them. Then it was 
they understood how they could partake of his precious 
body and blood without doing it in a gross or carnal man- 
^ner.| And he bade them feed others with the sume divine 
food : ‘ Do this in commemoration of me.’ And in giving 
the command he gave the powder : ‘ As the Father hath sent 
me, I also send you.’§ Now to prove to you, grandfather 
and grandmother, that the disciples understood him in the 
literal sense, that they placed no figurative signification upon 
his words, I will open the Bible and turn to St. Paul’s first- 
epistle to the Corinthians, x. 16 : ‘ The chalice of benedic- 
tion which we bless, is it not the communion of the blood 
of Christ? And the bread which we break, is it not the 
partaking of the body of the Lord ?’ Behold here, grand- 
father and grandmother, their belief in the literal meaning 
of his words : and behold, too, their obedience to his divine 

* St. John, vi. 68, 69. f See note under John, vi. 63. 

i St. Luke, xxii. 19, 20. § St. John, xx. 21. 


VIEWS OE CATHOLICITY. 


251 


commar.d: ‘Do this in commemoration of me.’ Bnt, as 
still stronger proof, in the very next chapter he gives a his- 
tory of this adorable institution. It is so beautiful and so 
conclusive, would you not like me to read it ?” 

“Yes, child ; the words of the apostles are words of life. 
Read them to us.” 

“ I will, grandfather. He'says, commencing at verse 23 : 
‘ For I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered 
to you, that the Lord Jesus, the night in which he was be- 
trayed, took bread, and giving thanks, broke and said : 
Take ye and eat : this is my body, which shall be delivered 
for you : Do this for the commemoration of me. In like 
manner, also, the chalice, after he had supped, saying: This 
chalice is the New Testament in my blood : this do ye, as 
often as you shall drink it, for the commemoration of me. 
For as often as you shall eat this bread, and drink this 
chalice, you shall show the death of the Lord, until he 
come. Wherefore whosoever shall eat this bread, or drink 
the chalice of the Lord unworthily, shall be guilty of the 
body and blood of the Lord. But let a man prove himself: 
and so let him eat of that bread, and drink of the chalice. 
For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and 
drink eth judgment to himself, not discerning the body of the 
Lord.’ Here, grandfather and grandmother, all the cir- 
cumstances attending the institution of the blessed sacrar 
ment are minutely mentioned — the time when, the night in 
which he was betrayed, the manner, blessing and breaking 
the bread, and blessing the chalice, consequence ot u ; wor- 
thy reception, guilty of the body and blood of the Lord; 
wherein, because ‘ he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, 
eateth and drinketh judgment to himself, not discerning the 
body of the Lord.’ What stronger proof could there be 
that the apostles took the literal meaning of our Saviour’s 


252 


AGNES ; OR, , 


words ? How could one by an unworthy reception be guilty 
of the body and blobd of the Lord — eat and drink judgment 
to himself, not discerning the body of the Lord — if the 
body and blood of the Lord be not there ?” 

Grandfather made no reply, but arising he slowly walked 
up and down the room ; his head was bent, and the thin 
silver locks fell over his venerable features. Grandmother’s 
knitting had dropped from her hands, but she knew it not ; 
on her face, so calm and thoughtful in its expression, rested 
a great light. For awhile she remained with her eyes fixed 
on the carpet ; then folding her hands, and raising her head, 
her lips moved in prayer. 

“ And this is what I have heard called ‘ the idolatrous 
Mass,’ the ‘ idolatrous sacrament !’ ” said grandfather, resum- 
ing his seat. 

Becky smiled : “ Grandfather,” she said, “ the slanders 
heaped upon the Catholic Church, and the fierce spirit of 
hatred directed against it, aflTord the strongest proofs of its 
being the Church of Christ : ‘ If the world hate you, know 
ye that it hated me before you. If you had been of the 
world, the world would love its own ; but because you are 
not of the world, therefore the world hateth you.’^ They 
hated Him without cause, and without cause they have* hated 
His Holy Church. They accused Him of having a devil; 
and they have accused His Church of all evil.” 

Grandfather was deeply afifected ; leaning his forehead on 
his open palm, he remained some time buried in thought. 
At length, raising his head, he observed : “ On Christmas 
morning I noticed that none but the priest partook of the 
cup.” 

“ No, grandfather ; the laity partake only under one kind. 

* St. John, XV. 18 , 19 . 


VIFWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


263 


“ But did not Christ give a positive command to all to 
drink of the chalice, as well as to eat of the bread ? ‘ Drinb 
ye all of this.’ ” 

“ To all the twelve apostles he certainly did, and the}^ 
obeyed him ; they all drank of it.* But, grandfather, as 1 
told you before, this was not only intended as a sacrament, 
but as a sacrifice. As a sacrament, receiving under one 
kind, we receive Christ, whole and entire, into our souls ; her 
cannot be separated. He is true Cod and true man, under 
the form of bread, and under the form of wine. Christ 
said, John, vi. 51, 52 : ‘I am the living bread which came 
down from heaven : If any man eat of this bread he shall 
live forever : and the bread which I \Yill give is my flesh, for 
the life of the world.’ The disciples at the Last Supper re- 
ceived under both kinds, for they wei;e not only partaking 
of the sacrament, but offering a sacrifice. In this sacrifice 
which is a memorial of Christ’s death for the more lively 
representing the separation of Christ’s body from his blood, 
the priest consecrates and receives in both kinds. But un- 
less offering up the holy sacrifice, that is, grandfather and 
grandmother, unless saying Mass, neither priest, bishop, nor 
pope receive but in one kind. In Luke, xxiv., we read that 
our Saviour, on the day of his resurrection, appeared to two 
of his disciples, when on their way -to Emmaus ; they knew 
him not, but when at the close of the journey ho sat down 
to the table with them, and took bread, blessed, and gave 
to them, their eyes were at once opened. Now, grandfather 
and srrandmother, if this had been common bread, would 
the eating of it have opened their eyes ? No 5 and this is 
proof positive that the disciples then received under one kind. 
And again, in Acts, ii. 46, we read that the disciples con- 


* Mark, xiv. 23. 


254 


AGNES ; OE, 


tmued the breaking of bread. In chapter xx., V, it say s : ‘ And 
on the first day of the week when we assembled to bi'eak 
bread.’ You see from "these passages that from the very 
first the faithful received under one kind ; yet, lest my words 
might lead to a wrong conclusion, T will raeuiiou, tluit while 
it is a matter of faith thaf under the form of bread the pre- 
cious body and blood, soul and divinity, of Christ is received 
into our souls, it is only a matter of discipline whether atc 
receive under one or both kinds ; for whether we receive 
under the form" of wine, or under the form of bread, the 
blessed and loving Jesus is still received. He cannot be 
separated ; he cannot be divided ; neither do we, recebung 
under both kinds, re^jeive two Christs. The Holy Ghost 
descended on our Saviour in the form of a dove, and on the 
apostles in the fonn of fiery tongues, still Ave know there is 
but one Holy Ghost ; thus it is with the blessed sacrament 
under either form, or both forms, there is but one Christ.” 

“ But, child, the bread seenred not of the common kind.” 

“No, grandfather ; the Church makes use of wafers of 
unleavened bread in the sacrament of the Eucharist. By 
unleavened, I mean that it is of fine Avheaten flour, Avith no 
otlier mixture than pure Avater. . The reason for this is to 
have it of the same kind as that Christ used when he insti- 
tuted the blessed sacrament. You recollect, grandfather 
and grandmother, it was the first day of the feast of un- 
leavened bread. Noav upon that day, and for six days after, 
there was no leavened bread to be found in all Israel ; 
it Avas even death to eat of any other than unleavened 
bread during that time. This was in accordance Avith the 
laAv of Moses. In Exodus, xii. 1 5, it says : ‘ Seven davs 
shall you eat unleavened bread : in the first day there shall 
be no leaven in your houses : whosoever shall eat any thing 
leavened, from the first day until the seventh, that soul shall 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY, 


255 


perisli out of Israel.’ From this it is conclusive, being the 
first day of the feast of the unleavened bread, that our 
Saviour made use of no other at the Last Supper. Unleav- 
ened bread is also symbolical of sincerity and truth. St. 
Paul, in his First Epistle to the Corinthians, V., 7, 8, ad- 
monishes ns to forget the old leaven of malice and wicked- 
ness, and feast with the unleavened bread of sincerity and 
truth. The wine made use of in the sacrament is the wine 
of the grape. And now, grandfather and grandmother, for 
a fuller explanation of this sacrament I will refer you to 
Challoner’s ‘ Catholic Christian." ” Becky ceased, and for 
awhile her grandparents were silent ; then grandmother 
spoke : 

“ Dear Becky, do you recollect you were to tell us of the 
sacraments of your Church ?” 

“ Yes, grandmother ; I do.’ 

“ When reading Milner’s ‘ Second Mark of the True 
Church,’ its sanctity, we found there, were seven sacraments. 
This of the Eucharist is one, will you now tell us of the 
other six ?” 

“ Yes, dear grandmother, with pleasure. I will com- 
mence with Baptism, ' the first Christian sacrament ; this 
washes away actual and original sin, introduces us into the 
Church, and makes us children of Cod and heirs of heaven. 
Its water is true, natural water; the form, the one our 
Saviour gave when he commanded his disciples to ‘ Go 
teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, 
and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’” 

“ But, child,” said grandfather, “ which way does the 
(^hurch administer it, by dipping, pouring, or sprinkling ?” 

“It is not essential which way, grandfather ; but it is 
.-nstomary with the Church to administer this sacrament by 
dipping in the water, or pouring water on the person bap- 


266 


AGNES ; OR, 


tized ; tlie'former way is used in the East, the latter in other 
places.” 

‘‘ But, Becky, does the Church hold that baptism is a 
saving ordinance ?” 

“Yes, grandmother, it does: ‘Except a man be born 
again of water and the Holy Ghost. he cannot enter into the 
kingdom of God.’ 

“ Therefore, child, the Church holds that without bap- 
tism, none can enter heaven ?” 

“ Grandfather, there are two exceptional cases : first, if 
one is so situated that lie cannot possibly receive the sacra- 
ment, yet has an earnest desire for it, joined to a perfect love 
of God and a true contrition for his sins, and dies in these 
dispositions, such a one is saved, for he receives the baptism 
of the Spirit. The other case is, Avhen one before baptism, 
yet having desire for it, suffers martyrdom for his faith, he 
is saved, he is baptized in his own blood.” 

‘ ‘ Child, I hardly think you can call these exceptional 
cases.” 

“ Why, grandfather ?” 

“ Because it seems one must be baptized, one way or the 
other ; either by water. Spirit, or blood, to be saved ?’ 

“ Very true, grandfather ; and this shows how strongly 
• the^Church considers baptism necessary to salvation. In a 
case of 'necessity, when a priest cannot be had, and a child 
IS in immediate danger of death, a layman, woman, or even 
child, can adminis'ter this sacrament ; but they must be very 
careful, to render the baptism valid, to use the exact form, 
that is, to baptize in the name of the Father, and of the Son, 
and of the Holy Ghost. But unless the case be urgent, it 
is a criminal presumption for a layman to administer it^” 


' * St John, iii. 5. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


25 *? 


“ But, child, if a person has been baptized in any other 
church, does the Catholic ChUrch hold that baptism valid ?” 

“Yes, grandfather, if the true matter and form have been 
observed. That is, if true, natural, not artificial, water has 
been used ; at the same time, pronouncing the words : ‘ I bap- 
tize thee in the name of the Father^ and of the Son, and of 
the Holy Ghost. The Catholic, in repeating this, always 
makes-the sign of the cross, but if this sign is omitted, as 
of course it is with Protestants, provided the true matter 
and form are observed, it does not render null the sacra- 
ment. The next sacrament in order is Confirmation.” 

“Before you proceed with that, Becky, having men- 
tioned the sign of the cross, tell ns why it is so much used 
by Catholics.” 

“ It is openly to profess our belief in a crucified God, to 
show the world that we are not ashamed of the cross, and 
to remind us continually of Christ’s death and passion. 
Making the sign of the cross is making an act of faith, hope, 
and charity. We believe in Christ crucified, we hope 
through his crucifixion to obtain pardon for oiir sins, and 
we love him with our whole hearts for all he has suffered for 
us. It is made use of in all the sacraments to denote that 
it is thrqugh the death and passion of Christ all their efiScacy 
is derived.” 

“ Mother,” exclaimed grandfather, “ surely to a Christian 
— one who hopes for salvation through the cross — this sign 
ought to be held in reverence and respect ; not sneered at 
and contemned.” 

“ No, father, certainly not. Contempt for the sign of the 
cross implies contempt for the religion of Christ. Cut, 
Becky, dear, we will no longer hinder you; tell us: now 
about the second sacrament.” 

“ It is a sacrament, grandmother, by which, after bap- 


258 


AGNES ; OE, 


tism, we receive the Holy Ghost to strengthen^ and confirm 
us in the faith ; hence its name, Confirmation. It is admin- 
istered by the imposition of hands, and anointing tlie fore- 
head with chrism, with these words: ‘I sign thee with the 
sign of the cross, I confirm thee with the chrism of salva- 
tion ; in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the 
Holy Ghost its ordinary minister is a bishop, and as, like 
baptism, it leaves a spiritual mark upon the soul that can 
never be effaced, so, like baptism, it is never received but 
once. In baptism we are reborn children of God ; in con- 
firmation we are enrolled under the banner of the cross to 
fight the battles of the Lord. Jo'b says : ‘ The life of a man 
upon earth is a w^arfare, and in this sacrament w^e receive 
weapons with which w'e may win the victory.’ These weap- 
ons are the seven-fold gifts of the Holy Ghost: ^ Wisdom^ 
which weans our affections from the world, to the love and 
enjoyment of God : Understanding^ to know and penetrate 
the excellency of them : Counsel^ whereby to choose what 
is for the glory of God, and the good of our souls : Forti- 
tude, to withstand the devil, and all his agents : Knowledge, 
to discern the right from the wrong : Piety, to wnlk with 
delight in the service of God : Fear, to adore him in all his 
attributes, and tremble to offend him.’* These w^eapons 
enable us successfully to combat all our spiritual enemies, 
and, in the end, gain the crown of glory, 'which is laid up 
for us in heaven. Grandfather and grandmother, do you 
recollect in the last chapter of Luke that our blessed Lord 
bade his disciples, before they should begin their mission, to 
wait in the city till they had been endued wdth power from 
on high. And, then, in the first chapter of Acts, where this 
command, in speaking of the ascension of Jesus, is men- 


* “Poor Man’s Catediismf’p. 201, 208. 


_yiEws OP CATHOLicmr. 


250 


tioned, and in the next, how the disciples did wait till the 
promised strength came, till the Holy Ghost descended upon 
them.” 

“Yes, child, we recollect it, now that you have spoken of 
it to us.” 

“ And do you recollect, in chapter viii., that when the apos- 
tles that were in Jerusalem heard that Samaria had received 
the word of God, how they sent to them Peter and John, and 
who, when they were come, prayed for them, that they might 
receive the Holy Ghost ? This was after their baptism ; 
they had not yet been endowed with power from on high, 
but when Peter and John laid their hands upon them, the 
Holy Ghost descended upon them. From the very next 
verse we learn that this ceremony was called the imposition 
of hands. In chapter xix. we find that, when the Church 
was established in Ephesus, those that had been baptized 
Paul imposed hands upon, and they thereby received the 
Holy Ghost. And, again, in Hebrews, vi., we read of the 
imposition of hands, proving plainly, grandfather and grand- 
mother, that this second sacrament was practised by the 
apostles.” 

“ But, child, in these passages to which you have referred, 
I hear nothing of the anointing, yet you told us that it 
was ministered, not only with the imposition of hands, but 
anointing the forehead with, I think, you said, chrism.” 

“ Yes, graiidfather, I did; but in 2 Corinthians, i. 21, 22, 
vou will find anointing is part of the ceremony. St. Paul 
says : ‘ Now he that confirmeth us with you in Christ, and 
he that nnointed us, is God. Who, also, hath sealed us, 
and given the pledge of the Spirit in our hearts.’ ” 

“ Becky, child,” said, grandfather, “ is this the way the 
Church has always administered this sacrament, by anoint- 
ing, as well as by imposition of hands ?” 


260 


AGJfES; OE, 


“ From the writings of the Fathers, and the councils of 
the Church, it is evident that it is. St. Cyprian lived in the 
third century ; he writes : ‘ It is moreover necessary, that 
he who has been baptized should be anointed ; in order 
that, having received the chrism, that is the unction, he may 
be anointed of God, and possess the grace of Christ;’"^ 
and in the council of Laodicea, held in the fourth century, 
the Church says : They who have been instructed must, 
after baptism, be anointed with the celestial chrism, and 
he made partakers of the kingdom^of Christ.f Many others 
could I quote to prove that this sacrament has always been 
administered in the one way, but it would weary you, and 
these I have quoted will convince you that anointing with 
chrism, as well as imposition of hands, has ever, from the 
apostles’ time, been practised by the Church.” 

Grandfather crossed his hands on his cane, and bowed his 
head on them. 

Grandmother observed : “ Becky, dear, we must think 
over what you have said.- Father and I must not let lightly 
pass from our mind the things we have heard.” 

Becky was silent; but, while her lingers were busy with 
the netting, her heart w^as lifted in prayer. 

A half hour passed away ; grandfather slowly raised his 
head, looked earnestly at grandmother, then, turning to 
Becky, said : 

“ Child, I would like to know what this chrism is.” 

“ Chrism, grandfather, is a compound of oil of olives and 
balm of Gilead, blessed by a bishop on Maunday Thursday. 
The outward anointing of the foi-ehead wdth chrism repre- 
sents the inward anointing of the soul with the IIolv 
Ghost. The oil, whose properties are to fortify the limbs, 


Ep. Ixx. ad Jan. p, 125. 


f Can. xlviii. p. 5105, 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


261 • 


and to give a certain vigor to tlie body, represents the like 
spiritual effects of the grace of this sacrament in the soul. 
And the balm, which is of a sweet smell, represents the good 
odor of Christian virtues, with which we are to edify oui 
neighbors, after having received this sacrament.’ 

“But, tell us, child, is confirmation, like baptism, a saving 
ordinance ?” 

“No, grandfather; it is not so necessary to salvation, but 
that' a person may be saved without it ; but it would be 
very wrong, if an opportunity occurred, not to receive it. 
God’s loving mercy should not be slighted ; he has insti- 
tuted the sacrament for the good of our souls, and it is our 
imperative duty, if we possibly can, to avail ourselves of its 
wonderful means to salvation. The next sacrament in order, 
is the Holy Eucharist ; but, as I have already spoken of it, ' 
I will proceed to the next. Penance.” 

“Wait a moment, child; there is another question 
which I wish to ask ; but, perhaps, I weary you with too 
many ?” • 

“ No, grandfather ; it is a pleasure for me to answer them. 
What is it you would like to know ?” 

“ Becky, child ; it is well, when studying out a difiicult 
question, to learn the meaning of every word. You are 
now explaining the sacraments, and it may seem like bring- 
ing in a foreign subject ; but as you mentioned Maunday 
Thursday, when speaking of the bishop’s blessing the 
chrism, I would like to know the meaning of it ; why it is 
called Maunday Thursday, and to what does it refer ?” 

“ It is so called, grandfather, from the first word of the 
anthem, Mandatum, ‘ I give you a new commandment, that 
vou love one another, as I have loved you,’ and is in mem- 

* Challoner’s “ Catholic Christian,” p. 44. 


^62 


AGNES ; OR, 


ory of our Lord’s Last Supper, when he instituted the 
blessed sacrament of his precious body ai^ blood.” Becky 
was just commencing an explanation of the sacrament of 
Penance, when Jane summoned them to dinner. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


263 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It was not till the afternoon of the next day that grand- 
father and grandmother again sent for Becky. 

“Well now, child,” said grandfather, as she seated her- 
self near him, “ we will hear what you have to say about 
Penance. I will be very candid ; I think you have in it 
the hardest sacrament of the seven to explain.” Becky 
smiled. 

“ It would be hard, grandfather, if I had not Scripture 
and the early testimony of *the Church 4o support it.” 

“ I have heard a great deal about this sacrament, child, 
and I once considered it the masterpiece of all villanies. 
I looked upon Catholics as the most miserably deluded set 
in the whole world. I had been told that they were taught 
to believe they could buy from their priests pardon for their 
sins, and not only for those already committed, but for 
those they wished to commit ! What scripture could sanc- 
tion so horrible an impiety ? What doctrine so damnable ? 
Words are unable to express the deep, settled feeling of 
detestation I had for a religion so utterly at variance with 
every sentiment of virtue and morality. But, child, this 
feeling has passed away ; although I do not yet understand 
on what scriptural authority this sacrament is based, my 
eyes .have been opened to know this buying pardon for 
sins already committed, and license to commit more, is a 
vile and shameful slander.” 

“It is, grandfather; and many a Catholic family, living 


204 


AGNES ; OE, 


away from the Church, among Protestants, and many a poor 
girl and boy, gaining, by the sweat of the brow, their 
bread among them, have every feeling of their hearts out- 
raged by this, and other horrid misrepresentations of their 
holy religion. Now, I will try and tell you and grand- 
mother the Catholics’ belief concerning, this sacrament, and 
the scriptural authority for that belief. Penance is an in- 
stitution of Christ, by which those who have fallen into sin 
after baptism, by confession, contrition, and satisfaction, 
may obtain absolution from the priest, pronounced by the 
authority of Christ.” 

“ Child, what do you mean by satisfaction ?” 

“ I mean a faithful performance of the penance enjoined, 
such as making restitution to our neighbor, prayers, alms- 
deeds, or fasting.” 

“ And does the Catholic believe that these things merit 
forgiveness for his sins ?” 

“ No, grandfather ; the Church teaches that man of him- 
self can merit nothing. All his merit comes through the 
death and passion of Christ; still, ‘good works, proceeding 
from grace, are so acceptable to God, that through his 
goodness and promise they are truly meritorious of eternal 
life.’^ Hence, St. Paul, in his First Epistle to Timothy, 
vi. 1 8, exhorts us to be rich in good works ; and in his 
Epistle to Titus, hi. 8, he says: ‘It is a faithful saying; 
and of these things I will have thee to affirm earnestly,, that 
they who believe in God may be careful to excel in good 
works. These things are good and profitable to man.’ St. 
Peter, in his Second Epistle, i. 10, entreats us: ‘To labor, 
that by good w'orks we make sure our vocation and elec- 
tion.’ God wills every man to be saved; through the 

* “ Catholic Misrepresented and Represented.” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


265 


luerits of Jesus Clirist, out of his infinite mercy, he grants 
to all abundant grace to work out their salvation. But we 
must respond to this grace ; we must, as the Apostle en- 
treats us, ‘ labor, that by good works we may make our 
vocation and election sure for ‘ God will render to every 
man according to his works.’ Of ourselves we can do 
nothing,^but ‘ we can do all things in him who strengthon- 
eth ns.’* Grandfather, do I make my meaning clear to 
you ?” 

“Yes, child; you mean that good works are necessary, 
but the merit arising from them comes from the merits of 
Christ ; that we have nothing that we have not received, 
and are, therefore, not to glory as if we had not received.” 

“No, grandfather; all our glory is in Christ — in whom 
we believe, in whom we merit, in whom we make satisfac- 
tion, bringing forth ‘ fruits worthy of penance.’ — Luke,iii. 8. 
This fruit has its efficacy from him ; by him it is offered to 
the Father; and through him is accepted by the Father.”f 

“Well, child,” said grandfather, “I see in this part of 
the sacrament of penance — satisfaction — nothing contra- 
dictory to Scripture. What more just, if we have wronged 
our neighbor, to undo that wrong so far as in our power ? 
If we have stolen from him, to restore what we have un- 
justly taken. This was even more strictly laid down in the 
law of Moses. Becky, child, in Exodus, xxii., you will see, 
if a man stole an ox or a sheep, killed and sold it, he was to 
restore five fold and four fold ; and if he had not wherewith 
to make restitution, he was himself to be sold. If that 
which he stole was found alive with him, he was to restore 
double. The law of restitution, enforced in the sacrament 
of penance, is a just and righteous law. And as to prayer, 

* Phil iv. 13. 1 Cor. iv. 7 . 

f St. Vincent’s Manual, p. 196. Note. 


12 


266 


AGNES; OR, 


is it not the very life of the soul ? What Christian could 
object to that ?” Grandfather said nothing of alms-deeds 
and fasting, and Becky thought she ought to make some 
remarks about them. 

“ Grandfather,” she said, “ and as to alms, in Matthew, vi.,>^ 
the loving Saviour teaches how they are to he given. 

‘ When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what 
thy right hand doeth. That thy alms may be in secret, 
and thy Father, who seeth in secret, will repay thee.’ He 
teaches us also how to pray : ‘ When thou shalt pray, enter 
into thy chamber, and having shut the door, pray to thy 
Father in secret ; and thy Father, who seeth in secret, will 
reward thee how to fast : ‘ When thou fastest, annoint 
thy head, and wash thy face ; that thou appear not fasting 
to men, but to thy Father, who is in secret, and thy Father, 
who seeth in secret, will reward thee.’ Now, grandfather 
and grandmother, I know the generality of Protestants, 
while willing enough to bestow alms, quite object to fast- 
ing ; but if fasting were not one of the good works which 
brings forth fruit worthy of penance, would Christ himself 
have instructed us how to fast, and have promised a reward 
for it ?” 

“ No, child, certainly not,” said grandfather ; then, turn- 
ing to grandmother, he exclaimed : “ It is surprising, mother, 
that, in all our readings of this chapter, we never observed 
the force of these words.” 

“ Father, they have often struck me, and I have won- 
dered when the blessed Jesus taught us how to fast, as well 
as how to give alms and pray, that any body of Christians 
should deny that fasting was not a Christian’s duty as well 
as prayers and alms.” 

“ It must be, mother ; if it were unnecessary to fast, in- 
stead of telling us how, Christ would have told us not to 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


267 


fast at all. Strange, while founding belief on the Bible, so 
much of the Bible should be overlooked, and its teachinofs 
passed heedlessly by. But, child, now that we have heard 
about Satisfaction, we will speak of the Confession. Mother 
and I have come to the conclusion, that it is made in a 
kind o.f general way, something like the confessions of the 
newly converted among Protestants, except, instead of be- 
ing made before the whole congregation, it is made in 
private, to the priest.” 

“ Grandfather, J did not know that Protestants practised 
confession in any way.” 

“ I do not know as they call it confession, child ; but 
when they experience religion they arise in church, and 
tell • the trials through which they have passed, what 
wretched sinners they have been, and how the remembrance 
of their wickedness had almost plunged them into despair, 
when the great mercy of God descended upon them, as- 
sured them of forgiveness and restored peace to their 
hearts. Now is not the confession of the Catholic made 
something like that ?” 

“Not in the least, grandfather. A Catholic, preparing 
for confession, offers up earnest prayers, that he may have 
a true sorrow for his sins, and grace to avoid them in 
future ; then, praying that he may be enabled to make a 
sincere confession of them all, he carefully examines his 
conscience to see wherein he has offended in thought, word, 
or deed ; after this, revolving in his mind all God has done 
for him and the. poor return he has made, the great danger 
incurred by sin and the terrible punishment awaiting it, 
he once more offers up his earnest prayers to God, begs 
from him the gift of a true contrition, and making a firm 
resolution, with his holy help, never more to offend him, 
and to fly the occasion of sin, he enters the confessional.. 


268 


AGNES ; OK, 


There, on his knees, penetrated with a sense of his un- 
worthiness, and the infinite mercy and goodness of God, 
who offers to him reconciliation and forgiveness through 
the sacrament of Penance, he makes the sign of the cross 
and exclaims, ‘ Bless me. Father, for I have sinned !’ The 
priest pronounces the blessing in these words : ‘ The Lord 

be in thy heart and in thy lips, that thou mayes.. truly 
and sincerely confess all thy sins : in the name of the 
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen 
then the penitent repeating the Conjitcor as far as ‘through 
my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous 
fault,’ proceeds to accuse himself of all his sins ; telling 
first when he was at confession last, if he was absolved, if 
he performed the penance enjoined, and if he performed 
it with fervor and devotion, or carelessly and without due 
attention. Having confessed all his sins, which after a 
careful examination, he can remember, he concludes with 
these words : ‘ Of these, and all other sins of my life, I 

humbly accuse myself ; I am heartily sorry for them, and 
beg pardon of God, and penance and absolution of you, 
my ghostly Father he then finishes the Confitcor. This 
prayer, grandfather and grandmother, you will find in our 
prayer-books. If you wish, after tea, I will bring one to 
you.” 

“Yes, child, bring one to us, we would liPe to see it. 
But proceed, mother and I are greatly interested.” 

“ I will, grandfather. After the Conjiteor he listens with 
attention to the advice of his confessor, 'and humbly ac- 
cepts the penance he enjoins, whether as to restitution to 
his neighbor, prayers, or alms. When the priest absolves 
him, he respectfully bows his head, and receives the absolu- 
tion as coming from the hands of God himself. This is 
the spirit in which the Catholic makes his confession. To 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


269 


hide or conceal a mortal sin in the confessional, or color it, 
so as to make it appear less than it really is, he ^vould con- 
sider a grievous crime, making null his whole confession.” 

“ But tell us, child,” said grandfather interrupting her, 
“ what do you mean by mortal sin ?” 

“ One that kills the soul, grandfather, and merits 
eternal punishment. In saying it kills the soul, I do not 
mean that the soul dies. No ; the soul is immortal, and can 
never die. But as by death the soul is separated from the 
body, so by mortal sin the soul is separated from God. 
Now as the separation of the soul from the body is called 
the death of the body, so the separation of the soul from 
God is called the death of the soul. Therefore, by mortal 
sin the soul suffers a spiritual death : hence its name. 
All sin is either mortal or venial. Mortal sin I have ex- 
plained ; and of venial, I will say, it does not kill, but 
weaken, the soul. That there are different degrees in siiG 
Scripture and reason tell us. In Matthew, chapter v. verse 
22, our blessed Saviour says: ‘But I say to you, that 
whosoever is angry with his brother, shah be guilty of the 
judgment. z\nd whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, 
shall be guilty of the council. And whosoever shall say, 
thou fool, shall he guilty of hell fire.’ Here we see three 
different degrees of sins, by the three different punishments 
allotted to them. As to mortal sins, St. Paul, in his Epistle 
to the Galatians, v. chapter, 19th, 20th, and 21st verses, 
and in other epistles points them out ; and to prove that 
there is, what Catholics call, mortal and venial sin, St. John 
in his First Epistle, v, chapter, IGth verse, tells us there is a 
sin which is not unto death, and in the next verse, after 
telling us all sin is iniquity, that there is a sin which is 
unto death.” 

“Well, now, dear child, that you have explained this 


270 


AGNES ; OR, 


matter to us, we would like to know on what scriptural 
authority the Catholic is obliged to confess his sins to -a 
priest, and also what scriptural authority he has to believe 
that the priest has power to absolve him.” 

“Grandfather, when our blessed Lord gave the commis- 
sion to his apostles to teach all nations, baptizing them in 
the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
Ghost, and promised to be with them all days, even to the 
consummation of the world, did he mean that the apostles 
would live to the end of time ?” 

“ No, child ; they were only to live the natural term of 
life, and many of them not even that.” 

“ Then, did not this promise extend to their successors ?” 

“ Yes, child ; to their successors in the ministry it surely 
did.” 

“ And when he said to them : ‘ As the Father hath sent 
me, I also send you,’ did he not mean — with the same 
power and authority with which he was sent to establish 
his reliofion on earth, he sent them ?” 

“It seems so, child.” 

“ It was so, grandfather ; for, had they not been endued 
with power and authority from on high, could they, poor 
fisherman, have shaken the pride and pomp of the greatest 
empire on the face of the earth, swept their idols away, 
and established in their place the most sublime religion the 
world ever knew ? All the old landmarks were to be re- 
moved, pride was to be humbled, and men that only sought 
after glory and fame, were great in the field of learning, 
and great in all the world calls greatness, were to bow in 
adoration of a God born in a stable, that led a life of toil 
and poverty, a!id ended that life by an ignominious death 
upon the cross. Unaided, they could never have done this ; 
in vain had been their preaching ; in vain the last drop of 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICiry. 


271 


their blood spilt in the cause. Power from on high was 
needed ; and power from on high was given. ‘ All po^wer 
is given to me in heaven and in earth. Go ye, therefore^ 
and teach all nations ; baptizing them in the name of the 
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost ; teaching 
them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded 
you; and behold, I am with you all days, even to the con- 
summation of the world.’^' Yes, he was to be with them 
in their successors, to the consummation of the world, and 
the power which the Father had given him he gave them. 
‘ As the Father hath sent me, I also send you, to preach, to 
teach, to baptize, to forgive sins and to prove, past a 
doubt, that the forgiveness of sins in his name was included 
in the divine commission, he breathed on them and said : 
‘Receive ye the Holy Ghost; whose sins you shall for- 
give, they are forgiven them ; and whose you shall retain, 
they are retained.’! This is the scriptural authority, the 
words of Christ himself, by which the priest of God is 
empowered to forgive sins, the scriptural authority which 
enforces confession of sins to him. In Matthew, xvi., 
after blessing Peter, and declaring he was the rock upon 
which he would build his Church, and that the gates of 
hell should never prevail against it, he promised to give 
him the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and that whatso- 
ever he .should bind upon earth, it should be bound in 
heaven ; and Avhatsoever he should loose upon earth, it 
should also be loosed in heaven. Here the promise of the 
Son of the Eternal Father, the Saviour, whose blood ran- 
somed a sin-cursed world, is given to Peter, and in Peter to 
the priests of the Church, that whatsoever they bind on earth, 
shall be bound in heaven ; and whatsoever they loose on 


♦ St. Matthew, xxviii. 18,. 19, 20. 


f St. Jolin, XX. 22, 23. 


AGNES ; OE, 


■ ‘^72 

earth, shall be loosed in heaven : and shall we doubt the 
fulhlment of that promise ? or shall we believe that Christ 
has forgotten to make good his word ? To prove that, in 
giving that power to Peter, he gave it not alone to him, but 
to the Church, in the 15th, 16th, l7th, and 18th verses 
of chapter xviii., of the same Gospel, he says — and 
grandfather and grandmother, note the solemnity of his 
words, and note, too, the impressive manner in which the 
promise before given is again repeated : — ‘ If thy brother 
shall offend thee, go, and reprove him between thee and 
him alone. If he shall hear thee, thou shalt gain thy 
brother. But if he will not hear thee, take with thee one 
or two more, that in the mouths of two or three witnesses 
• every word may stand. And if he will not hear them, tell 
the Church. And if he will not hear the Church, let him 
be to thee as the heathen and the publican. Amen, I say 
to you, whatsoever you shall bind upon earth, shall be 
bound also in heaven ; and whatsoever you shall loose upon 
earth, shall be loosed also in heaven.’ What words 6ould 
be stronger or plainer, and, as long as Christ has said it, 
shall it not be done? Shall not the sentence which the 
priest pronounces on earth be ratified in heaven ?” 

With his forehead resting on his hand, grandfather re- 
volved her words in his mind. Would Christ say one thing 
and mean another? When he said, ‘Whose sins^ou shall 
forgive, they are forgiven, and whose you shall retain, they 
are retained,’ did he mean something quite contrary to his 
word? that the sins in the one place were not for- 
given, and in the other not retained ? No ; the God 
of truth would not deceive his apostles. The commission 
he gave them was expressed in the plainest terms, and 
should vain man gainsay his words ? ‘ Woe to him that 

striveth with his Maker. Shall the clay say to him that 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


273 


fashioned it, What mahest thou? or thy worlc, He hath no 
hands Should God’s power be doubted, and his com- 

mands, because hard to be obeyed, be slighted ? Troubled 
waves washed over grandfather’s face ; but, at length, rais- 
ing his head, he said : 

“ Becky, child, there is one more question I would like 
to ask concerning Penance ; but first, I must remark, this 
confession of one’s sins to a priest seems to me the hardest 
thing in human nature. I might be willing enough to con- 
fess my sins to God, but to bow my knee to a sinful crea- 
ture like myself, and whisper in his ear all the transgressions 
of my life, would be humiliating in the extreme ; and, then, 
notwithstanding power had been given him to pronounce 
absolution upon my bleeding soul, once out of the sacred 
seat, the memory of them going with him, what advantage 
might he not take of the knowledge thus gained? How 
unjustly use the confidence reposed in him?” 

“ Grandfather, I admit confession of sins to a priest is very 
trying, but a rite so humiliating to the human heart would 
not, in all ages of the Church, have been so faithfully 
observed had it not been necessary, to enable the priest to 
use the power Christ had intrusted in him ; in other words, 
had it not been necessary to obtain the pardon of them. 
And as to the latter part of your remark, dear grandfather, 
I will tell you, and you will find the same in Challoner, 
p. 126, ‘That, by the law of God and his Church, what- 
ever is declared in confession can never be discovered, di- 
rectly or indirectly, to any one, upon any account whatever ; 
but remains an eternal secret betwixt. God and the penitent 
soul, of which the confessor cannot, even to save his own 
life, make any use at all to the penitent’s discredit, disad- 


12 * 


* Isaiah xlv. 9. 


274 


AGNES ; OK, 


vantage, or any other grievance whatever.’ You see, dear 
grandfather and grandmother, another instance of the care 
and providence of a good God over all his creatures, and 
the tender solicitude the Church has for the spiritual welfare 
of all its members,” 

“ We do, child ; and I am glad you have told us this. 
Not for a moment should we distrust the mercy of 
God. ‘The works of his hands are verity and judg- 
ment ; all his commandments are sure ; they stand fast 
'forever and ever, and are done in truth and upright- 
ness. He hath sent redemption -unto his people; he 
hath commanded his covenant for ever ; holy and rev- 
erend is his name.’ The sunshine of peace rested 

on the venerable features of grandfather ; raising his 
head, the long silver locks fell over his shoulders. It was 
some time before Becky spoke. 

“ Grandfather,” she said, softly laying her hand on his 
knee, “ what was the question you were going to ask ?” 

“Child, you have already ^swered.it. It was if confes- 
sion has always been practised by the Church. You say 
that it has.” 

“Yes, grandfather. In Acts, xix. 18 , we read ‘that 
many of those that believed, came confessing and declaring 
their deeds.’ Tertullian lived in the age next to the apos- 
tles. He writes : ‘ If you withdraw from confession, think 
of hell-fire, which confession extinguishes.’ St. Basil, in the 
fourth century, writes: ‘ It is necessary to disclose our sins 
to those to whom the dispensations of the divine mysteries 
is committed.’ St. • Austin, in the sixth century : that 
‘ Our merciful God wills us to confess in this world, that we 
may not be confounded in the other and again, ‘ Let no 


* Psalm cxi. 7, 8 9. 


VIEWS O'? CATHOLICITY. 


275 


one say to liimself, I do penance to God in private.’ Is it, 
tlien, in vain, tliat Christ has said, ‘Whatsoever you loose 
on earth, shall be loosed in heaven ?’ Is it in vain that the 
keys liave been given to the Ciuirch ?* Grandfather, you 
thought the explanation of the sacrament of Penance would 
be a difficult undertaking ; but having, as I said. Scripture 
and the early testimony of the Church to sustain it and as- 
sist me, I have easily done it.” 

“Dear Becky,” said grandmother, “we have read the 
Bible all our lives ; but it seems we have read it wnth ban- 
daged eyes. The plainest texts were blurred to our vision, 
and only conveyed a confused meaning to our minds. But 
the bandage is removed ; and now, like the blind suddenly 
restored to sight, we are bewildered and amazed. Our 
hearts rejoice in God, we know his mercy and power are 
great.” Grandmother’s voice was tremulous, and as she 
concluded she wiped away a tear, trickling down her cheek. 

Becky was affected; but, vvith a calm voice, she asked: 
“Grandfather and grandmother, shall I not continue with 
the sacraments?” 

“ Certainly, child,” exclaimed grandfather, “ you were 
to tell us of them all. Which is the next?” 

“ It is Extreme Unction. In the sacrament of Bai^tism^ 
we are received into the Church, and made heirs of heaven • 
in Confirmation^ we are confirmed in the faith ; in the Hid^j 
Eucharist^ our souls are fed and nourished ; in Penance, their 
maladies are cured ; and in Extreme Unction, they arc 
strengthened for their passage out of this life into a letter. 
Having watched over us and guided us through life, the 
loving mercy of God leaves us not in death. In that tr}^- 
ing moment he is with us ; enemies rise up against us, but 


“Extracts of the Fathers,” taken from Milner, 


276 


AGNES ; OE, 


he is our keeper ; they cannot harm us, for he is our salva- 
tion.” 

Grandfather reverently -laid his hand on her head. 
“Becky, child,” he said, “your words remind me of the 
words of the Psalmist, ‘Yea, though I walk through the 
valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil : for thou 
art with me; thy rod and tliy staff, they comfort me. Thou 
preparest a table before me in the presence of mine ene- 
mies ; thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth 
over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the • 
days of my life ; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord 
forever.’* Becky, child, I gather from your words that* 
these are the sentiments with which the dying Catholic 
receives this sacrament.” 

“Yes, grandfather, they are; though in the midst of 
death he is not afraid, for God is with him ; a table is pre- 
pared for him in the presence of his enemies, and he is an- 
ointed with oil. The mercy and goodness of God follow- 
ing him all the days of his life ; in leaving his house of clay 
he hopes to go into the house of the Lord forever. All the 
parts of this sacrament are explained in St. James’s Epistle, 
v. chapter, 14th and 15th verses, where he commands, ‘Is 
any one sick among you ? let him bring in the priests of 
the Church, and let them pray over him, anointing him 
with oil, in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith 
shall saAm the sick man, and the Lord will raise him up ; and 
if he be in sins, they shall be forgiven him.’ ” 

“ Can this sacrament, child, be received but once?” 

“ Yes, grandfather, whenever a person is in danger of 
death by sickness, he can receive it ; but in that sickness 
he cannot receive it again, unless it be long, and after a 


* Psalm xxiii., 4, 5, 6. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


277 


partial recovery he suffers a relapse. Infants, fools, and 
insane persons, who have no lucid intervals, cannot receive 
this sacrament, because, having no reason, they are incapable 
of sin ; neither can persons under sentence of death.” 

“ Why, Becky, can they not in this case ?” 

“ Because, grandmother, it was commanded to be admin- 
istered to none but the sick ; and, therefore, only those who 
are in danger of death by sickness can receive it.” 

“ Child, this looks strange ! Should not the poor con- 
demned criminal, if he repent, be allowed to receive the 
benefit derived from it ? Death, at any time, is a terrible 
ordeal through which to pass ; but when the body is worn 
down by pain and weakness, the trial seems not so great. 
Every pang speaks the wretchedness and misery of life ; the 
nothingness of the world rises up before them, and turning 
from the bed of pain and suffering, they rejoice to leave 
the tabernacle of the flesh, and go into the everlasting hab- 
itation of the Lord. But not so with those who, in health 
and vigor, with long years stretching on before them, find 
themselves suddenly cut off from length of days, and the 
grave opening to receive them. The memory of their 
crimes darkens the past — the present is without comfort, 
and must the future be without hope ?” 

• “ No, grandfather, God forbid ! Through the merits of 
Christ, in the sacrament of Penance they can obtain pardon 
for their sins ; and although they cannot be anointed — 
Extreme Unction being a sacrament only for the sick — with 
humble confession and true contrition, they can receive 
into their poor souls the precious body and blood of Christ. 
In their need they are not left without spiritual aid and 
comfort.” 

Again grandfather was silent. The fire was burning low, 
and noiselessly, so as not to disturb his meditations ; Becky 


278 


AGNES ; OE, 


arose, stirred up tlie dying embers, and put on a fresli sup- 
ply of wood. She had resumed her seat, and was busy 
with her netting, wlien he raised liis head and said : “ Well 
now, child, your grandmother and I would like to know the 
oil made use of in the sacrament.” 

“It is oil of olives, blessed by a bishop on the Maundy 
Thursday of every year. The bea;itiful and solemn prayers 
accompanying the anointing you will find in our prayer- 
books; also, prayers and instructions for the sick, and 
prayers for the dying. And now, before proceeding to the 
next sacrament, I must remark that, from the beginning of 
the world, in order to save confusion, and for the general 
welfare of the whole, it has been necessary to have some 
one on whom authority might devolve — some one to lead, 
govern, and direct. In Genesis, first chapter, we see man 
created, and dominion over all the living creatures of the 
earth given to him. Adam ruled his own family, and the 
patriarchal form of government seemed to exist till after 
the flood. But of the grandsons of Noah — Noah, whose 
descendants were to repeople the earth — v»e read that Nim- 
rod began to be mighty ; he chose Babylon as the seat of 
l^s kingdom, and cities and kingdoms began to spring up. 
Pride, ingratitude, and worldly glory were sweeping all re- 
membrance of the Creator from the minds of men, when 
Abraham was chosen to keep alive the faith and homage 
due to God. He was promised a numerous posterity; 
children were born to him, and from Abraham to Isaac, 
from Isaac to Jacob, and so on, from father to son, the priest- 
hood descended till the time of Aloses. Then the law of 
nature was reduced to a written law, and the priesthood 
was confined to the family of Aaron. This continued till 
the time of Christ ; then the old sacrifices were abolished, 
and he became our high-priest, offering himself to the 




VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 2^0 

Father, a sacrifice for the sins of men. This sacrifice, in 
an unbloody manner, was to be continually offered up, and 
he consecrated his apostles to the priesthood, placing Peter 
as visible head on earth. They, in their turn, using the 
power which had been given them, were to consecrate 
others, thus continuing the priesthood till his second 
coming. And now, grandfather and grandmotheT, Holy 
Orders, the sixth sacrament, is the sacrament by which 
priests of God are consecrated to their holy offices, and re- 
ceive power and grace to do them worthily. There are 
seven degrees, or orders, in ascending to the priesthood ; 
four less, and three greater. Of the less, the first is Porter; 
the second. Lector; the third. Exorcist; and the fourth. Aco- 
lyte. JBy these lesser degrees, or orders, they ascend to 
the greater; the first of which is Suhdeacon; the second, 
Deacon ; and the third. Priest. While receiving the lesser 
orders, they are at liberty to retire from the ecclesiastical 
calling and marry ; but if they choose to become subdea- 
con, they must engage themselves wholly and forever to 
the service of God and his Church.” 

“ And from that time they cannot marry ?” 

“No, grandfather, they are to lead a life of perpetual 
continency. St. Paul says, 1 Corinthians, vii. 32, 33, ‘ He 
that is unmarried careth for the things that belong to the 
Lord, how he may please the Lord ; but he that is married 
careth for the things that are of the world, how he may 
please his wife,’ Now, in order that the priests may be 
wholly devoted to the service of God, that they may have 
no family cares to distract their minds from their holy call- 
ing, the Church has always ordained that none but such as 
are willing to leave all to serve Christ shall become priests. 
Enrolled as his ministers, no ties bind them ; from country 
to country they can go, carrying the light of the Gospel to 


4 


280 AGNES ; OE, 

all nations. Contagious diseases appall them not ; no wife or 
children are in danger from them. Poverty is not feared, 
for their Master before them was poor ; persecution retards 
them not, for, ministers of a crucified God, they rather re- 
joice in suffering.” 

“ W^ll, child,” said grandfather, after some considera- 
tion : “ this being free from the distracting cares of a family 
seems for a minister or priest no ways unreasonable to me. 
Many have thought and said vile things concerning it, but it 
is only those whose hearts are naturally corrupt, and who, 
carrion-like, gloat over a tale of vice, concocted no matter 
by whom, or of whonu, if it is only sufficiently spiced with 
horribles. But to those who can study cause and effect, it 
presents another instance of the wonderful wisdom which 
guides the Church. No wonder the Catholic religion, in 
spite of ‘all opposition, gains a sure foundation everywhere 5 
no wonder it is so extensively spread. Its minfsters have 
nothing else to do but to struggle and battle for it ; noth- 
ing else to care for but its advancement.” 

“ Dear grandfather, the glory of God, and the salvation 
of souls are the beginning and end of their care, their labor. 
St. Paul, in his Epistle to the Hebrews, xiii. 17, tells us, 
that they watch as being to render an account of our 
souls ; and, therefore, that they may do this with joy and 
not with grief, he exhorts us to obey them, and be subject 
to them. A heavy responsibility is theirs; and if St. Paul, 
a vessel of election, stood in need of prayer, how much 
more they ! They are our spiritual fathers, and through 
them, next to God, we are indebted for our spiritual life 
and being. It is through their ministry that we receive the 
blessed sacraments, those great means and helps to salva- 
tion, and it is our duty ever to pray for them ; while, as 
‘ Christ’s ambassadors,’ we are to honor and respect them.” 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


281 


“But, Becky, you spoke of bishops conferring the sacra- 
ment of Confirmation.” 

“ I did, grandfather ; but the order of priesthood has two 
degrees of power and dignity ; that of bishops, and that of 
priests. The office of a priest is to consecrate and ofifer 
the sacrifice of the Body and Blood of Christ, under the 
forms of bread and wine ; to administer all the sacraments, 
except Holy Orders and Confirmation; to preach the 
Gospel, to bless the people, and to conduct them in the 
way to eternal life ; as, also, to bless such things as are not 
reserved to the benediction of the bishop. The office of a 
bishop is to govern the Church, both clergy and laity, in 
his particular diocese ; to inflict censures, excommunica- 
tion, suspension, etc. ; to offer sacrifice, to preach the Gos- 
pel, to give Confirmation and Holy Orders; none but bishops 
receive this sacrament in full, so as to have power to ad- 
minister all the sacraments. Of these degrees of Holy 
Order, only bishops, priests, and deacons constitute the 
hierarchy of the Church, which is of divine institution. 
But, as there are several degrees in order, so there are higher 
and lower degrees of dignity and spiritual jurisdiction in 
the episcopacy itself: first, that of Ordinaries ’ second, tlmt 
of Archbishops ; third, that of Primates ; fourth, that of 
Patriarchs ; fifth, that of the supreme head and common 
father of all, the Pope, who holds his supremacy, as suc- 
cessor of St. Peter, by divine right.’* For a fuller explana- 
tion of this sacram’cnt, and the manner of administering it, 
I will refer you and dear grandfather to the ‘ Poor Man’s 
Catechism,’ and Challoner’s ‘ Catholic Christian.’ The 
former of these I studied at the dear Sisters, and its lessons 
come back so fresh to mind, that you will see, in answering 


* “The Poor Man’s Catechism,” pp. 256, 257. 


282 


AGNES ; OE, 


your questions, tliat I have sometimes used its very lan- 
guage.” 

“Did you study Challoner too?” 

“ No, grandfather; but, nevertheless, it is familiar to me: 
For some time past I have had a Sunday-school class going 
over it. And here I may as well remark, as anywhere else, 
that, in order that no Catholic may be ignorant of his faith, 
the learned divines of the Church have assiduously labored 
to compose works, wherein the doctrine, precepts, and 
every thing belonging to the Catholic religion are carefully 
explained. These works are plainly and simply bound, and 
within the reach of all.” 

“ And Becky, child,” said grandfather, smiling, “ this 
refutes another slander against your Church.” 

“ WhaCis it, grandfather ?” 

“ That the priests strive to keep the people in ignorance. 
I must ‘say that I have always found Catholics, no matter 
how poor and uneducated, better acquainted with the prin- 
ciples of their religion than the members of any other de- 
nomination I have ever come in contact with. But now, 
child, we will listen to the next sacrament.” 

“ It is Matrimony, grandfather. A sacrament of the new 
laV, by which a new dignity is added to the indissoluble 
marriage contract, and grace given to those who worthily 
receive it. It was instituted in the garden of Eden, when 
God, casting Adam into a deep sleep, took from his side a 
rib, and fashioning it into a woman, presented her to him 
as a companion and help ; and, because she was bone of 
his bone, and flesh of his flesh, therefore, man is to leave 
father and mother and cleave to his wife. In John, ii., we 
see that our blessed Saviour honored the married state by 
his presence at the wedding in Cana, at which he was 
pleased to work his first miracle.” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


283 


“But, child, what is the difference between marriage 
being a contract and a sacrament?” 

“ Grandfather, as a contract, a civil contract, marriage is 
to fill the eaith with inhabitants; as a sacrament, it is to 
increase the members of God’s Church, and fill the courts 
of heaven with happy redeemed spirits, who will join the 
angelic hosts in eternal praises to the Three in One — Father, 
Son, and Holy Ghost. St. Paul, in his Epistle to the Ephe- 
sians, V. 32, calls it a great sacrament. And why? because, 
being an indissoluble contract — a contract which no power 
on earth can break — it is a type of Christ’s union with his 
Church, which is also indissoluble ; and to those who wor- 
thily receive it, gives grace to live in peace and mutual 
charity together, and bring up their children in the love 
and fear of God. Now, in order to receive this sacrament 
worthily, it is necessary to be in a state of grace. Sins 
should be -washed away in the sacrament of Penance, holy 
communion should be received, and the intention of enter- 
ing the married state should be pure, like the pious and 
chaste Tobias and Sarah. If under the care of parents, 
they should be consulted, and on no account should so im- 
portant a step be taken without their approval and consent ; 
but, in using their authority, parents are not to force their 
children to marry against their inclinations.” 

“Child,” said grandfather, “although I have seen several 
Catholics married to Protestants, I believe I have heard that 
the Catholic Church does not approve of these marriages.” 

“No, grandfather, she does not approve of them.” 

“And why not, child? I should suppose she would be 
pleased with them ; for the Protestant being united to the 
Catholic in the closest ties, she would hope to see the Pro- 
testant thereby converted. I have certainly seen many in- 
stances of such conversions.” 


284 


AGNES ; OE, 


“No doubt, grandfather; but the reason the Church is 
averse to these mixed marriages is, that as long as the 
Protestant, notwithstanding St. Paul’s solemn affirmation 
that it is a ‘ great sacrament,’ looks upon it as no such thing, 
she does not wish her children to receive it with them. 
Another reason is, that it is often the cause of bitter family- 
dissensions, the wife believing one way, the husband an- 
other ; there is danger, too, that the Catholic party may be 
perverted, or, at least, not allowed the free exercise of their 
religion ; and another danger is, that the children may be 
brought up in error !” 

“ But, Becky,” observed grandmother, “ in this matter I 
think there, should be a generous understanding between 
the parents. One should not expect to have the sole 
guidance of the children’s belief. A part, say the girls, 
should be taught to believe with the mother, the boys .with 
the father.” 

“ By no means,” exclaimed grandfather, “ mother, your 
good-nature would lead you into an agreement that would 
cause you much and bitter pain. Could you bear to see a 
part of your children brought up from their very infancy in 
a faith that you honestly considered wrong, and, being 
wrong, displeasing to God, and, displeasing to him, render- 
ing them objects of his wrath ?” 

‘‘ Prather, I did not look at it in that light, but a mo- 
ment’s reflection teaches me you are right. Surely it would 
bo a great grief to mo, and to any conscientious Christian 
mother. But, Becky, are there not such instances known ?” 

“There may* be, grandmother, but it is in direct opposi- 
tion to the Catholic doctrine. God and his Church will n 
have no such division, nor give up thus their right to any 
one.* As to the manner in which the sacrament is received, 

* Challoner’s “ Catholic Instructor.” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


285 


or the marriage ceremony performed, you will see it in 
Challoner. And now, grandfather and grandmother, hav- 
ing finished the sacraments, as I said when treating of the 
second mark of the true Church, its holiness, are they not 
wonderful channels through which the grace of God may 
flow into our souls ? By Baptism, original sin is washed 
away, and we are reborn children of God, and made heirs 
of heaven ; by Confirmation, we are blessed with the seven- 
fold gifts of the Holy Ghost, and made valiant soldiers of 
Christ ; by Penance, our souls, sick in sin, are restored to 
health, and their spiritual maladies healed ; by Holy Eucha- 
rist they are fed and strengthened with the precious body 
and blood, soul and divinity, of our blessed Saviour ; by Ex- 
treme Hnction, they are soothed and comforted, and not left 
a prey to the terrors of death ; by Holy Orders, faithful 
guides are furnished to lead them to the fountain of all good ; 
and by Matrimony, they are raised above the grossness of 
flebh, and children arc born not for the world, but for God.” 

“ Becky, child,” said grandfather, “ I am much pleased 
with your explanation of the sacraments. Certainly, to a 
Catholic, they must be great helps to devotion. The more 
I reflect upon it, the more I am convinced that Catholicity 
reduced to practice, is very different from what I once 
thought it was.” 

Tears rushed to Becky’s eyes. “ Grandfather and grand- 
mother,” she said, “ you now forgive your children for em- 
bracing a faith which you looked upon with so much hor- 
ror. ” 

“ Child,” grandfather replied, “ your question pains us. 
Forgive them ! God knows how, from pur very hearts, we 
have long since forgiven them, and only felt that they, not 
we have been the aggrieved party. Oh, can they forgive 
us ? — forgive me ? Mother was always gentle, but I — oh, 


286 


AGNES ; OE, 


can they forgive and forget the sternness and harshness of 
the past ?” He bowed his head upon his hands, and his 
aged form trembled with sobs. 

Becky arose, and tenderly threw her arms around his 
neck. “Dearest grandfather,” she said, “your children 
have pitied and prayed for you. You loved them as your 
very life ; is it any wonder, then, that you should feel deeply 
pained to see them cling to a religion that you strongly be- 
lieved would lead them to eternal misery ? Grandfather, 
they have nothing to forgive or forget. They know the 
depth of your affection for them, and not a day has gone 
over their heads that they have not prayed for you in your 
sorrow and affliction.” 

“ Noble, noble-hearted children !” he exclaimed with 
streaming eyes, “while I reviled them, they prayed for 
me !” 

“ Yes, grandfather, they did ; and now let your poor old 
heart be comforted. The mercy of God has washed away 
the remembrance of their sorrow, and now they are so 
happy.” 

“ Praises to God ! I am not deserving of this. But leave 
us, child, leave us,” he exclaimed, dashing away the tears 
from his eyes, and abruptly brushing the thin, white locks 
from his lofty brow. She wished to ask him should she re- 
turn with the prayer-book as she had promised, but she saw 
he was deeply affected, and questions would only annoy 
him. Stooping, she kissed his withered cheek, and having 
also kissed her grandmother, quietly left the room. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITYe 


287 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Agnes Hilton laid down her crayon, and leaning her 
cheek on her hand, gazed intently at the drawing before 
her. It was “The Taking of the Veil,” and the yoiingf 
bride of heaven looked so calm and happy, laying aside for- 
ever the pomp and vanities of the world, that tears swam ir 
her dark eyes, 

“ Oh, that I, too, were happy !” she sighed ; a heavy 
feeling of loneliness weighed down her heart ; the longer 
she gazed on the fair face the sadder she felt. 

“ Why should I long for imaginary happiness ?” she ex- 
claimed, sweeping back the soft ringlets, and resuming her 
crayon. “ Why should I, looking upon a picture, fancy life 
and feeling on unsentient paper ? Shadows have obscured 
the sunshine of my heart ; but will the shadows last forever ? 
Will not the sunshine again burst forth ? It may, if not in 
my own home, at least in the home of another. Thank 
God, that hope is left to me !” Her eyes rested for a mo- 
ment on an envelope lying on the table ; it contained a 
letter from Walter Starr, which told of golden prospects 
opening before him ; year after year had he toiled, and now 
the, time, which once seemed so distant, was just at hand. 
A few months more, and her father could no longer delay 
the fulfilment of his sacred promise. Agnes would be his, 
and hand in hand they would go down the stream of life. 
Age might come upon them^ but their love would never 


288 


AGN£S ^ Oil, 


groAV old ; it would bloom in perennial brightness, and if 
cares and sorrows should gather around them, it would 
• lighten them ; and when length of years made them weary 
of life, untouched by the shadows of death, it would go 
with them into another and better world, and last through 
the boundless cycle of eternity. Agnes’s heart throbbed 
with gladness while reading the letter ; but, as she replaced it 
in the evelope, an undefinable dread cast a shadow over its 
bright hopes. Was she happy in her own home? No. 
Would she be happy in his? Time alone could tell. The 
. past we know, the future is veiled. With unwearied fingers 
she worked on. The venerable priest and attendants, the 
altar back, with its lighted candles and vase of rich fiowers, 

. were finished ; a few more touches, and the picture would be 
done. She turned it, carefully viewed it, and again took up 
the crayon. With every thing around her to make her 
happy, she was wretched. What caused her wretched- 
ness ? The same passion which created confusion in the 
highest heavens, and hurled legions of its brightest hosts 
down to the lower abyss of misery and woe. She arose 
from the table ; the picture was finished ; glancing at the 
little clock on the marble mantel, she went into her 
chamber, and soon returned habited for a walk. Wrapping 
up the drawing, from which she had just copied “ Taking 
of the Veil,” in a paper, she left the room. In the passage, 
as she was hurrying along, she met Martha, and though 
paler than ever, a calm, peaceful light beamed from her eyes. 
' Agnes swept past her with pride and disdain, plainly visible 
in her countenance. Descending the stairs, the drawing fell 
from her hands to the hall below ; little Mark was there, 
and hastily picking it up, respectfully handed it to her. 
With a harsh rebuke for his officiousness, as she called it, 
she took it from him, and passed into the street. She was 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


289 


going to visit Edith Carter, and remain with her during the 
night. Edith had become so low, that she was now 
obliged to have constant attendance. The fear of death had 
passed away, and, strengthened with the last rites of the 
Church, her gentle spirit longed for the moment of its re- 
lease. As Agnes, after removing her cloak and bonnet, 
entered her room, a bright smile broke over her face. 

“ Dear Agnes,” she said, “ I have been looking for you, 
and I knew you would come !” How strangely hollow her 
voice sounded. Agnes’s long lashes drooped, heavy with 
tears, as stooping, she kissed her forehead, and asked : 

“ And how, dearest, did you rest last night ?” 

“ My cough was very annoying, but poor mother suffered 
more than I; it troubled her so to see me struggling for_. 
breath.” In all her pain the gentle Edith thought only of 
the sufferings of others ; her own she scarcely minded. The 
poor, the objects of her tenderest regards, were not forgot- 
ten. Many a feeble mother’s burden was lightened by her 
thoughtful care. Many a little one owed their warm shoes 
and stockings, and comfortable clothing, to her kind, unob- 
trusive charity. And through fear they might suffer when 
she was gone, she had prevailed on her father to set aside a 
part of the fortune that would have been hers, that thfe in- 
come arising from it, might be solely applied to relieving 
their wants. 

“ I have returned your drawing, Edith,” said Agnes; lay- 
ing it on the table. 

“ And have you succeeded in gefting a copy to please 
you ?” 

“Yes, I like it very well; but I have purposely made 
some little variations.” 

“ What are they ?” 

“ The fair young girl, you Know, is represented as tall ; I 
„ ■ 13 


290 


AGNES j OEj 


have drawn her about the medium height, but very slight ; 
and the expression of the eyes was so much like yours, that I 
have also made the brow like yours ; consequently, it is not 
so high as in the original, but. it is broader. The sweet 
smile about the mouth, and the calm, holy peace of the 
whole countenance, I could not better ; indeed, I had hard 
work faithfully to copy them.” She seated herself at Ihe 
bedside of the invalid. “ Edith,” she said, “ I am going to 
stay with you again to-night.” 

“ You are very kind, Agnes ; but I fear it will be too 
fatiguing on you to sit up with me so often.” 

“ No, dear Edith ; you must have no uneasiness about 
that. I assure you, it would deeply pain me not to be al- 
lowed the privilege. You are going to open your lips to 
say you thank me, but you need not.” 

“ Why should I not ?” 

“ Because it’s unnecessary : you are too weak to waste 
your breath thanking me for that which deserves no thanks 
at all.” Edith made no reply, but watched the troubled 
waves that washed over her friend’s face. After a some- 
what lengthened silence, she spoke : 

“ Agnes, before I go, there is something I wish to say to 
you.^’ 

“ Cannot you say it now, dear Edith ?” 

“ No ; not now. I am too weak, but I would not like to 
die with it unsaid.” _ 

Agnes looked at her surprised. “ Edith,” she said, “ you 
- know you can trust me. Tell me, dearest, is it any thing 
that grieves you ?” 

“Yes, Agnes ; grieves me past words to tell. I must say 
it. I must, I must, before I go!” A violent fit of coughing 
nearly exhausted her breath. Agnes raised her up, and 
gently supported her in her arms, till it was over ; then ar- 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


291 


ranged the bed-chair, so she could lean in a sitting position 
against it. 

Mrs. Carter entered the room, and after a kind welcome 
to Agnes, walked to the bureau, took up a powder, and 
emptying it into a glass half filled with water, gave it to the 
invalid. 

“ Is that the same you have been taking after coughing ?” 
asked Agnes. 

“Yes, the same; the doctor has in no way changed 
them.” 

“ And do you continue the solution ?” 

“Yes, I occasionally take it; but it gives very little relief. 
Mother, Agnes is going to stay with me again to-night.” 

“ Agnes, this must not be ; so much loss of sleep will 
wear you out. Bertha sat up night before last, I did last 
night, and Johana will tomight.” 

“ No, Mrs, Carter, Johana will not ; I will, myself, to- 
night, sit up with dear Edith, and take the charge of her medi 
cine. You need not fear to trust me, I shall be faithful and 
neglect nothing ; and I will not talk, for I know how wear- 
ing this is to a very sick person.” 

“ Dear Agnes, there is none that can take better care of 
our darling Edith ; but you look pale, and I fear you have 
not strength to endure it.” 

“ Mrs. Carter,” rejoined Agnes, “ you would not refuse 
me a favor that you could easily grant ?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ Then pray do me the favor to make no more objections. 
The nights I pass at the bedside of Edith are treasured in 
my memory, and will never be forgotten.” 

Tears appeared in the mother’s eyes ; warmly pressing 
her hand she said : 

“ And never, Agnes, will your faithful friendship to our 


292 


AGNES ; OR, 


dear Edith be forgotten, either ; hut, tell me, will you take 
your tea with the family, or, shall I send it up, that you 
may take it with Edith ?” 

The latter, Mrs. Carter, if you please.” 

After some further conversation, Mrs. Carter left the room. 
Agnes opened a book and read till the shades of evening 
obliged her to lay it aside. She looked at Edith ; her 
wasted fingers were slowly going over the rosary, and her 
lips moved in prayer. Agnes thought a tear stood on her 
cheek, but it was too dark plainly to see. As Johana came 
in to light the room, she raised her hand and wiped it off. 
When they were again alone, Agnes tenderly asked : 
“ Dearest Edith, have those moments of dread and fear 
passed away ? Do they not occasionally rise up phantom- 
like before you ?” 

Edith’s large blue eyes, intensely bright, as if the light 
of heaven shone from them, were set upon her. “ x\gnes,” 
she said, “ the mercy of God has banished every fear ; no 
longer do I dread going into the presence of my Judge, for 
he is my Father. Earth is but our momentary place of 
banishment ; heaven is our true home ; there is our Father’s 
home, and there is his children’s inheritance.” Her wan 
countenance glowed with seraphic love. It seemed as if the 
wing of an angel had touched her brow, there was such a 
heavenly peace resting upon it. 

“But, dear Edith,” rejoined Agnes, “does not earth’s 
sadness sometimes weigh heavily on your spirit ?” 

Several moments passed befoi;p Edith answered. “Agnes,” 
she said, “ ’tis the sorrow of 'others that casts a gloom over 
my heart. No longer weeping for myself, I often weep for 
them; their hopes, which should soar heavenward, trail in 
the dust ; born for heaven, their thoughts cling to earth • 
passions choke the seeds of virtue in their hearts, and 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


293 


tares are springing up where only the pure grain should 
be.” 

“ You thinh, then, their sorrow is caused by some defect 
in themselves ?” 

“ Agnes, there are many in .affliction who, like Job, have 
ever faiMifully served the Lord ; sorrows gather around them 
and bitterness clothes their spirits ; but, still, their trust is 
in God, and hope dieth not within them. The time of 
their affliction shall pass by, and in the end they shall be 
doubly blessed. But there are others, and ’tis for thdm I 
grieve, who suffer themselves to be tormented by their own 
passions ; they walk in the shadow of death, and know it 
not ; they feel secure while every danger is around them. 
With their vain self-trust, they wonder they are not in 
peace ; but peace knows them not, she flies far from them ; 
the pas^ons they hug so closely to their hearts prove thorns 
in their sides, and in the end, if they cast them not out, like 
Esau, they will find they have sold their birthright for a mis- 
erable price.” 

The entrance of Johana, with a salver, interrupted the 
reply Agnes was about to make. A deep flush dyed her 
cheek. Edith’s words had to her an implied reproof. “ She, 
too, is leagued against me,” she thought, “ but let it be so, 
I have said it, and I will not change-. Others have been per- 
secuted for maintaining just opinions, and it is not surprising 
that I also should suffer for the same. What do I care for 
the opposition of the whole world ? Shall I be made to bow 
and cringe to mean, insinuating, artful creatures, who cloak 
their low, selfish ends under religion ? No ; so long as 
Martha Clement remains in the house, so long shall I look 
upon her with every feeling of loathing and contempt ; so 
.ong shall I refuse to accept her brother as mine. What 
spirit can she have to stay, when I have plainly told her 


294 


AGNES ; OE, 


how matters stood ? She would have long since left, hut my 
mother and father have entreated her to stay; nay, my 
mother has begged her, if she consjidered her peace of 
mind, if she felt the least gratitude for what she had done for 
her family, not to go, and she has given her word that she 
would not. Well, I, too, have given my word, and*we will 
see how it will end !” 

Edith sighed heavily as she watched the scornful working 
of her features. Nothing was said during the meal ; and 
althbugh Edith was able to partake but very sparingly of 
the delicate viands, she was so oppressed for breath after 
eating, that Agnes gave h^r another powder, threw up the 
windows, and drew aside the heavy curtains. Mrs. Carter 
and Mrs. Murray, the latter Edith’s sister Bertha, came in. 
Agnes was greatly alarmed ! 

“ Is it death ?” she whispered to Mrs. Carter. 

“No, I trust not ; of late she has many such turns.” 

“ And can nothing be done to relieve her ?” 

Mrs. Murray hastily spoke : “ Mother, I have often applied an 
Diled paper to the chest of my little Mary, when threatened 
with croup, would it not be advisable to try it for dear Edith?” 

“ Yes, Bertha, I think we will It will do no harm, and 
it may relieve her.” 

A piece of paper was quickly oiled and placed upon her 
chest. It seemed to give relief, for a short time her respi- 
ration became less labored. Mrs. Carter and Bertha remained 
till she was easy, and after they had left, Agnes, with un- 
wearied devotion, watched over her. Her cough was very 
distressing, and she slept none till in the latter part of the 
night ; then she sunk into a heavy exhausting slumber. 
Agnes gazed down on her pale wan face, and tears trem- 
bled in her eyes. Memory went back to her own and 
Edith’s happy school-days; day after day, with its regu- 


YIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


295 


lar routine of study, recitation, and recreation arose, before 
ber. 

Edith, so calm and thoughtful, so happy and contented, 
who would have thought her gentle spirit would have been 
so sorely tried ? Who would have thought that her sun 
would set before it reached its meridian — that ere the noon- 
day of life she would be sleeping her last sleep ? The in- 
valid tossed her arms, and murmured incoherently ; Agnes 
arose, shaded the lamp, and again seated herself at the bed- 
side. 

Poor, poor Edith !” she sighed, “ what a wreck. Not 
one trace of your former looks can I discover. Where is 
the face that Jerome Powers Joved so well ? Should he re- 
turn to earth, would he recognize in the wasted form the 
beautiful and blooming girl that was to have been his 
bride?” 

Gracious heavens ! what is life ? a vanishing shadow : a 
cloud that melts and dissolves before we have time to study 
it. How many since then that were praised, flattered, and 
admired in society, have become residents of another world ! 
They passed away, and their flatterers and admirers have 
forgotten them ; tlie places that knew them know them no 
more, and in the mad struggle of fashion and folly they are 
not missed. If only the vain and giddy were subject to 
death, then might the grave and thoughtful feel themselves 
truly raised above them. But no, all, all must die — the 
simple and the wise, the learned and unlearned, the poor 
and the rich. Death knows no distinction ; all belong to 
his harvest, and all are gathered in ; nothing escapes his 
sickle. Again the invalid murmured in her sleep, and this 
time her words were audible. 

“Father, for thy dear Son’s sake, bless and convert her. 
Oh, Agnes ! must we part, never, never to meet !” Heavy 


2e6 


AGNES ; OE, 


drops glistened on her brow, and her features writhed as if 
in acute pain. A pallor spread over Agnes’s face ; softly 
arising, she moved to the table, placed a screen between her 
and the bed, partially lifted the shade, and turning up the 
wiclv of the lamp, opened a book. It was Chateaubriand’s 
“ Travels in the Holy Land and as she read of the deso- 
lation of that country, famous as the theatre of the most 
wonderful events recorded in Scripture, a strange feehng of 
awe came over her. hJgypt points to her pyramids, and the 
still undecayed paintings of her ruined cities, as proofs of 
her former grandeur and magnificence ; Greece is filled with 
mouldering monuments of her early greatness ; Rome 
abounds in relics of her ancient glory ; but Jerasalem teems 
with memories the most solemn that can affect the heart of 
man. There was the land of promise ; there the home of 
the chosen people of God ; there David and Solomon 
reigned; there the brave Judith prayed for strength to 
deliver her people from the hands of their enemies, and 
there praise and thanksgiving arose to God when her prayer 
was heard — when by her, a weak woman, the power of the 
Assyrian was humbled, and Israel , saved from destruction. 
There the prophets foretold the coming of the Saviour ; 
and there, in the fullness of time, Jesus was born. O Jeru- 
salem ! Jerusalem ! that witnessed the life, miracles, and 
dying struggles of the Man-God ! well mayest thou in thy 
desolation “ seem yet to be pervaded by the greatness of 
Jehovah and the terrors of death !” Agnes closed the book, 
and leaning her elbows on the table, rested her head upon 
her hands ; her temples throbbed, and questions which she 
could not silence rose up. Why did they turn a deaf ear 
to the burning eloquence of his words ? Why were they 
blind to his astonishing miracles ? Why did they hate and 
persecute him unto death ? Because he came in the garb 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


297 


of poverty ; and their hearts, hardened with pride, would 
not acknowledge as King and Saviour one from among the 
poor and lowly. Had he come in regal pomp and splendor, 
as one of the princes of the earth, would they have de- 
spised him ? No ; they would have ranged themselves under 
his banner, and gloried in being his followers ; but because 
he was poor, they hated and put him to death. Pride w^as 
the cause of the reprobation of the J ews ! Pride crucified 
the Son of God ! She glanced at tjie clock ; it was time 
to give Edith her medicine. The glass was in her hand, 
and she stood at the bedside, dreading to wake her lest she 
might not be able to go to sleep again, when she opened 
her large blue eyes. 

“ Oh, Agnes,” she exclaimed, “ what a blessed sleep I have 
had I” 

“ Only two hours, dear Edith.” 

“ Two hours ! I do not know when I have had so long a 
nap! How' refreshed I feel ,!” 

“ I am glad to hear it ; and now, dear Edith, swallow this.” 

Edith sw' allowed the mixture, and handed back the glass. 
“ Now let me shake. up your pillows, and then you must 
try to go to sleep again.” 

“You may shake them up, Agnes, but I can sleep no 
'more. Thank God, I have had such a good long rest !” 

When she was laid comfortably on them she said : “ Now, 
dear Agnes, will you not read me a few pages out of St. 
Liguori ?” 

“ St. Liguori on the ‘ Love of Jesus Christ?’ ” 

“ Yes, Agnes ; that is the one. Well may the venerable 
Bede exclaim, ‘Blessed are the hands that write good 
books!’ St. Liguori has passed to his reward, but in his 
works he still lives ; still preaches the mercy, goodness, and 
justice of God ; still encourages the weak and fainting, ad- 


298 


AGNES ; OR. 


monislies the sinner, and strengthens and confirms the good. 
Oh, it sometimes seems, when I am reading his books, as if 
he, St. Liguori, had come to my sick-room, and was sweetly 
conversing with me. The tones of his voice ring in my 
ears ; I look, and wonder I cannot see him.” 

“ And do you ever fancy to yourself how he looked in 
the flesh?” 

“Yes, Agnes, and it is quite difierent from the 'pictures 
'I have seen of him. You recollect the one at the dear 
Sisters ?” 

“Yes, Edith, perfectly well. He is sitting at a table 
writing ; on one side of him is his library, hear it is his 
reading-desk, on which is an open volume, and over the 
desk is a statue of the Blessed Virgin. The Saint’s coun- 
tenance is very expressive and intellectual ; in his right hand 
is a pen, before him a sheet of paper partly filled, near him 
is another sheet closely written over ; a small figure of the 
crucifixion stands on the table on his left, on the right is a 
rosary, the crucifix of which is partly hanging down ; an- 
other rosary is, round his neck, and the crucifix of this he 
holds in his left hand. It seems he has been meditating 
upon it, for his eyes are raised in tearful sadness, while a 
glory plays around his features. Edith, I have studied that 
picture till it seemed I could almost see the trembling of 
the lips, and the convulsive heaving of the chest.” 

“ Beautiful as it is, Agnes, it is not as St. Liguori comes 
pictured to my mind. A smile is on his face, and his coun- 
tenance glows with the fervor and piety of his heart ; cha- 
rity beams from his eyes, and although he frequently speaks 
of the justice of God, he looks as if he had much rather 
dwell on his mercy. With the enthusiasm of St. Bernard, 
he has the mildness of Fenelon ; his hands are stretched 
out to sinners to lead them to God, and when he weeps, 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


299 


’tis not ill sadness, but in joy, that they are converted. Such 
is St. Liguori to my mind ; but now, dear Agnes, read to 
me from his blessed writings. In the stillness of the night, 
when the house is asleep, and darkness curtains the world, 
his words come so soothing and comforting to my heart.” 

“ I see, Edith, as I turn over the leaves, many passages 
that look as if teai% had dropped upon them !” 

“Yes, Agnes ; in the fearful struggles past, I used to fly 
to them for peace and comfort, and those passages which 
you see blotted with my tears, are the ones which seemed 
in my need particularly addressed to me.” 

Agnes removed the lamp to the stand near the bed, and 
giving Edith a spoonful of solution, seated herself, and in a 
low soft voice read till the invalid closed her eyes, not in 
sleep, but, with her crucifix clasped in her emaciated hands, 
to meditate on the peace-giving words she had heard. 
Agnes closed the little volume, and softly arising, walked 
to the window, and gazed down on the sleeping city. It 
was very dark — the darkness before day ; all was tranquil, 
and the countless lamps stretching along the streets seemed 
guardian spirits of the night. The poor had forgotten 
“ Life’s endless toil and endeavor,” the rich their pride and 
importance ; sleep, for a time, had levelled all distinctions. 
The lines of the poet occurred to her : 

“ The weary clouds, 

Slow meeting, mingle into solid gloom. 

Now, while the drowsy world lies lost in sleep, 

Let me associate with tlie serious night. 

And contemplation, her sedate compeer; 

Let me shake off the intrusive cares of day. 

And lay the meddling senses all aside. 

Where now, ye lying vanities of fife 1 
Te ever-tempting, ever-cheating train ! 

Where are ye now? and what is your amount? 


300 


AGNES ; OE, 


Vexation, disappointment, and remorse. 

Sad, sickening thought. And yet, deluded man, 

Thy scene of disjointed visions past. 

And broken slumbers will rise still resolved, 

With new flushed hopes, to run the giddy round.” 

“ Yes !” she mentally exclaimed, “ a few hours, and the 
struggle will again commence, passion will jar against pas- 
sion, and the streets, so silent and deserted now, will be 
thronged with the busy, eager, bustling crowd ; many will toil 
as if life were to have no end ; others, the sad, the unfor- 
tunate, those whose hopes have all been crushed, and whose 
prospects all blighted, dragging through the weary day, 
will long for the sleep that knows no awaking.” She 
leaned her head on her slender hand, and tears weighed 
down the long lashes. A violent fit of coughing seized the 
invalid, and roused her from her musing. She flew to the 
bed, raised her up, and again supported her in her arms till 
it was over. Then raising tiie bed-chair, she gently laid her 
against it. The next instant she handed her a powder. 

■ “ Agnes,” said Edith, as she took the glass, “ you look 
pale, and your eyes wild ; I fear you are greatly ex- 
hausted.” 

“ Not at all, dear Edith ; think of the seekers of pleas- 
ure. What are my vigils compared to theirs ?” Stepping 
to the table, she took up a soft towel, and returning, 
smoothed the damp hair on the broad brow, wiped the heavy 
drops of perspiration from her face, and rubbed her little 
hands and arms till they were dry, 

“ There, now, dear Edith, you feel better, don’t you ?” 

“Yes, Agnes; and will you please tell me' what time 
it is ?” 

“ It is ten minutes of six.” 

“ And another night is passed ?” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


301 


“"ies, Edith; day is appearing in the east.” The inva- 
lid commenced groping under the hed-clothes. 

“ What are you looking for, Edith ?” 

“ My beads. I want them to say my morning prayers 
on.” 

“ Well, do not trouble yourself, I will find them. I think 
I saw them when I raised you up.” She placed her hand 
beneath her and drew them forth. Edith kissed the crucifix 
and signed herself with the^ cross. Agnes knelt ; and, as 
in the days past at the dear Sisters, they said their morning 
prayers together.' 

The sun was rising when Mrs. Carter came in. ‘‘ How did 
Edith rest ?” she asked. 

“ In the fore part of the night, her cough troubled her 
a great deal ; but, in the latter part, she dropped asleep, 
slept two hours, and felt greatly refreshed when she 
awoke.” 

“ Thank God, she did ! The night before, she had no rest 
at all.”' 

Standing at the window, she happened to glance Out. 
“ Agnes, your carriage is come, and accept a mother’s 
best thanks for your kindness to her poor sick child.” 

Agnes made no reply, but pressed her hand. Moving to 
the bed, she stooped over and kissed the cheek of the 
invalid. ‘‘ Edith, "I am going now, and may you have a 
pleasant day.” 

With a sudden impulse, Edith threw her arras up round 
her. “ Oh, Agnes, Agnes !” she exclaimed, “ may God 
bless you ; and, I must say it, may he convert you. Oh ! 
may' not so much goodness be destroyed by one passion !’' 
Agnes gently disengaged her arms, and with a bitter smile 
turned away. In the next room, she found her cloak and 
bonnet, Johana' assisted her in patting them on, and Mrs. 


802 


AGNES ; OE, 


Carter followed her to the carriage. Reaching home, she 
immediately retired to her room ; laying aside her cloak and 
bonnet, she swept the long dark ringlets from her face, and 
threw herself on the sofa, but her head ached, and slie 
could not sleep arising, she walked up and down the room ; 
a feeling of utter wretchedness came over her. “ Home is 
no home to me !” she bitterly exclaimed. “ Here I thought 
to rest ; here I am more tormented than anywhere else. 
They say they have surrounded me with comforts. Yes; 
but take precious pains to poison them all. My own father 
and mother to league with a servant-girl and her family 
against me, their only child I If I believed in witchcraft, I 
would surely think they were the victims of some diabolical 
trick.” • An expression of intense scorn writhed her beauti- 
ful features. Happening in her walk to glance at her desk, 
she saw something from it had fallen on the carpet. She 
stooped, picked it up, and found it was the manuscript. 
Several days had elapsed, although she frequently thought 
of little Joe Harny, since she had looked into it. Draw- 
ing up her chair, she seated herself, and turned to the fifth 
chapter. 

“ A YEAR, how quickly it passes away, let it be heavy laden 
with sorrow, or light-winged with joy ! The Connors did 
every thing in their power to soothe^ and comfort the 
orphan heart of little Joe Harny. Yet, often, despite 
all their kindness, his loneliness would press heavily 
upon him. In his dreams, his mother’s slender form would 
hover round his bed ; again the silvery tones of her voice 
would thrill his ears, and again she would smile upon him 
•her sweet, sad smile.. Reaching out his arms to clasp her 
to his heart, he would start, wake up, and find her gone, 
and he alone, all alone. Poor child ! an overwhelming 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


303 


sense of loneliness would oppress him — wringing his hands, 
he would cry : 

“ ‘ Oh, mother, mother ! how shall I be able to go through 
life without you ; never see you as long as I live ; never 
hear your voice again ! Oh, mother, mother ! why don’t 
- death come to me f He slept with Bernard ; and, at such 
times, Bernard would twine his arms around him, and try 
to comfort him as best he could. 

“ But not all the time was he so sad and desponding. 
There were days that smiled on him as serenely as if death 
had never overshadowed his young heart ; days that seem- 
ed so much a reproduction of days treasured in his memory, 
that every jarring sound would be hushed, and peace, soul- 
resting peace, would fill his whole heart, till he would almost 
feel the visible presence of his guardian angel leading him 
on. Undisturbed, he was left to enjoy these peace-laden 
moments. Precious moments they were to him ; they dis- 
pelled the dark clouds obscuring his young life, and gave 
him strength to battle with the great future. 

“ The winter, spring, and early summer passed away, and 
a long-looked-for time drew near. It was between the hay 
harvest and the wheat, and they were all to go to church — 
all but Mrs. Connor and Maurice ; they were to remain at 
home to see after the cows. For a fortnight before, there 
was nothing else talked of. They were to go on Saturday, 
stay over Sunday, and return Monday. For several weeks 
Bernard and Joe had very carefully reviewed their Catechism, 
also, Bridget, Nellie, and Mike ; these latter were to make 
their first communion, Bernard and Joe for the first time to 
go to‘ confession. The children would naturally have 
dreaded approaching this sacrament, but Mrs, Connor spoke 
of it as so great a favor, and dwelt so much on the great 
credit they would receive, of living so far from the church. 


304 


AGNES ; OE. 


and knowing their Catechism better than those who lived 
near it, that their emulation was thoroughly aroused, and, 
in their great desire to excel, they entirely overlooked any 
embarrassment they might feel in approaching the peniten- 
tial sacrament. Carefully the weather was watched, and 
most devoutly did they pray for a fine day ; they were up 
early and late, working hard to get ready — for there were 
new suits throughout to be made for Bridget and Nellie 
and Mike, to make their first communion in — and talking 
incessantly of the last time they were at Mass, what Father 
John said, how the altar was dressed, of the grand music that 
rang in their ears for days after, and of the great happiness 
they possessed of being Catholics. An almost grateful feel- 
ing for that mark of the favorite children of God, contempt 
of the world, their little world, began to well up in their 
hearts. What did they care now that Deacon Lane’s chil- 
dren called them Papists, and accused them of worshipping 
the blessed 'Virgin ; or that Elder Pearson’s family elevated 
their nostrils, and turned aside their heads every time they 
passed them by, and a thousand other petty nameless per- 
secutions they had endured ? What mattered it all now? 
They were going to Mass, to be present at the renewal of 
Calvary’s sacrifice, and were they not rejoiced they could 
crowd round the cross, with each his little cross upon his 
shoulder ? What would a Christian be without his cross ? 

“At last, Saturday, clear and cloudless, dawned upon 
them. Bernard and little Joe hastened to the pasture with 
the cows, breathlessly repeating on the way passages from 
the Catechism. After an early breakfast, all washed, combed, 
and dressed, down to little Miles — for he was to go too — 
•they were handed into the heavy lumber wagon. Mr. Con- 
nor, Bridget, and Miles occupied the front seat, Nellie, Joe, 
and Mike the middle, Fanny, Bernard, and Hughy the back. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


305 


A full load it was ; but, as Mrs. Connor remarked, they 
were mostly little folks, so there was less in weight than 
their number spoke. 

“ A long, tiresome ride they had ; but, as the sun sent 
lengthening shadows to the east, they stopped before the 
house of Mrs. Donnell. Little Miles, who had fallen asleep 
in Biddget’s arms, was immediately put to bed, to finish 
his nap. Mrs. Donnell flew round to make everybody 
comfortable. She took their things, led them into her 
little parlor, opened the windows, and handed a fan to each 
of the girls ; then seating herself, she asked them a great 
many questions about their mother, spoke gratefully of the 
beautiful apples she sent her last winter, scolded them for 
bringing so large a basket of cherries, and laughingly won- 
dered on what tree the jar of honey, carefully wrapped in 
paper, grew. As to little Joe, she exclaimed : 

“ ‘ Sure he was the child that had lost his parents ; but, 
praises to God, hadn’t he fallen” into good hands? Why 
his cheeks are as red as pionies, and his eyes as bright as 
stars. Ah ! its Mrs. Connor, God bless her ! that wouldn’t 
let a little orphan pine himself to death.’ 

“ Mr. Connor soon returned from the livery stable, where 
he had been attending to the wants of his tired horses. 

“ ‘ Well, Mrs. Donnell,’ he said, sinking stiffly into a 
chair, and laying his hat on another beside him, ‘ here we 
are again!’ 

“ ‘Yes, sir; and it’s a long time since I saw you.’ 

“ ‘ Ah 1 Mrs. Donnell, one that lives between thirty and 
forty miles from the church, with such horrible roads as we 
have got, can’t get often to Mass.’ 

“ ‘ True, for you, Mr. Connor ; but it must be a great 
cross to live so*far from the church.’ 

“ ‘ It is, Mrs. Donnell,’ exclaimed the lively Nellie ; ‘ but, 


306 


AGNES ; OK, 


you see, to comfort ourselves, we keep thinking- of the old 
saying, “the farther from church, the nearer to God.” ’ 

“Mrs. Donnell smiled; but the smile died away, as Mr. 
Connor asked: ‘And how is Father John, and how does 
he get his health ?’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! poorly, poorly, poor man ! He’s drove to death ; 
out day and night, scarcely home from one place before 
he’s sent for to another. Last week he was sent for fifty 
miles to visit a sick man that had not seen a priest for 
eighteen years. He had just returned 'from some place 
below Littleton, and jolted for twenty miles over a horrible 
road, felt so stiff and lame that he could hardly stir; hut 
the messenger begged of him, for the love of God, to try 
and see the sick man, for his mind was greatly burdened, 
and he couldn’t die in peace till he had seen a priest. Well, 
without even waiting for a meal, he started with him.’ 

“ ‘ Did he reach in time V hastily asked Bridget. 

“ ‘ Yes ; on the morning of the second day he got there. 
The poor man’s mind was greatly eased by confession. 
Father John anointed him and gave him the holy Viati- 
cum ; soon after he died — died with the voice of Father 
John, repeating the prayers for the dying, sounding in his 
ear. Ah ! Mr. Connor, wasn’t that a great consolation after 
all the years he was away from the church ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Mrs. Donnell, a great consolation, indeed. Tb 
many a one it has not been granted. You were a little 
girl, Bridget, but you remember the death of Hugh Keating?’ 

“ ‘Yes, father; and he now lies buried in our little bury- 
ing ground.’ 

Well, Mrs. Donnell, the very year before the church 

was built in A- , poor Hugh hired out to a farmer, living 

about five miles from us. He came direct ffom New York, 
and didn’t know of any Catholic being near, and sure we 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


307 


knew nothing of him. One day, one of our neighbors, a 
sister to this farmer, was. in, and speaking to Ellen, told her, 
that the day before she was to her brother’s, and that his 
hired man was taken sick with brain fever, and was con- 
stantly calling on Jesus and Mary, and begging them to go 
for a priest. That she never saw any one so out of his 
mind, and that he kept tearing the 'cloths from his head, 
and striving to leave his bed gp as to go home where he 
could see a priest. Ellen could hardly wait till I got in 
from the fields, and that very night, after the chores were- 
done, we went to see him. Poor boy ! how he did rave ! 
He tore the cloths ^m his head, and, wringing his hands, 
called on our blessed Saviour and hisjioly Mother. I took 
his hand and signed him with the cross ; he looked at me 
vacantly for a moment, then covering his poor unconscious 
eyes with his hands, sobbed the loved names — Jesus, Mary. 
For a while he lay still and quiet, then, starting \^ildly up, 
in piteous tones begged for a priest. Oh ! how my heart 
ached ! If there had been a priest within fifty miles, that 
night would I have started for him ; but there wasn’t, and 
all I could do was to kneel by .his bed, and pray. All 
through the night he was very bad, and though no better 
by morning, I had to go home.’ 

“ ‘ And did Mrs. Connor have to go too 

“ ‘ Ah, no, Mrs. Donnell, Ellen stayed with him the short 
time he remained. It was only for a few days, poor boy ; a 
few days !’ Mr. Connor bent his eyes in a thoughtful man- 
ner on the floor, and slowly shook his head. ‘ Early on 
the morning of the sixth day,’ he resumed, ‘ while the 
family, who had been very kind to him, were yet sleeping, 
Ellen saAv a great ehange come over his countenance. She 
was kneeling by his bed, repeating, in a low voice, the litany 
or the sick. His eyes were closed, but tears forced their 


308 


AGNES ; OE, 


way over his pale eheeks. . ‘ Where am I V he faintly asked, 

* and who is with me V Ellen told him how we had heard 
of his sickness, and, being Catholics, had hastened to him ; 
because, we knew, it would do his heart good to see us. Poor 
boy ! his whole frame shook, and faster and faster came the 
tears. To quiet him, for she was afraid, he was so weak, if 
he continued crying, it would bring back the fever. She 
gave him his medicine, a^ again kneeling, read aloud the 
Penitential Psalms. The tears dried away, and by-and-by 
he slept. Every thing seemed to betoken his getting nicely 
on, but soon after waking he began rapidly to fail. Ellen, 
in haste, sent for me ; when I got there the doctor was 
standing by his bed, the family and a number of the neigh- 
bors were gathered in. Ellen, with his hand clasped tightly 
in hers, knelt by his side, reading aloud the prayers for the 
dying. All were greatly affected, and respectively moved 
aside for me. As I neared the bed, he faintly spoke, I bent 
down to catch his words : ‘ I shall never see a priest in this 
world,’ he said, ‘but ’tis God’s will, and his will be done.’ 
A light rested on his face. ‘ That is right, Hughy,’ I re- 
plied ; ‘ that is right. Bow to God’s will ; his will is 
always for our good.’ Broader and broader grew the light, 
a smile, a heavenly smile, Mrs. Donnell, parted his lips ; he 
folded his hands, and repeating, with great devotion; the 
loved names which had been on his tongue during his whole 
sickness, without a groan, a pang, passed away. Ah ! Mrs. 
Donnell, never will I forget that death ; it taught me that 
nowhere can one, who resigns himself to the will of God, die 
unprepared.’ 

“ Mrs. Donnell, quite overcome, hurriedly wiped away 
the tears, and with the ostensible purpose of seeing to her 
meal, but, in reality, to hide her emotion, hastily left the 
room. A great sadness came over little Joe. The grave 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


309 


of the stranger boy was beside bis father’s ; and often, of a 
Sunday afternoon, when the Connors gathered into the little 
cemetery, to read the litany for the dead, had he laid him- 
self down in the little hollow between the graves, and look- 
ing-up into the depths of the clear blue sky, felt that the 
graves beside him were a mockery ; that immeasurable dis- 
tances lay between him and his loved parents, and that he 
must wait long weary years before Death would open the 
portals of the sky, and lead him to them. Nellie saw the 
great gravity of his face ; drawing her arm around him, she 
brushed the hair from his forehead, and with sisterly kind- 
ness kissed him. 

‘Don’t be sad, Joe;’ she coaxingly whispered, ‘ by-and- 
by w^e’re all going over to Father John’s, and he’ll be so 
pleased with us for knowing our Catechism so well’ Little 
Joe smiled, and resolutely wiped away a great rolling 
tear. 

“ ‘ I don’t see, for my part, Mr. Connor,’ said Mrs. Don- 
nell, returning quite composed, ‘ why one need go and set- 
tle themselves so far from the Church.’ 

“ ‘ I might say the same, Mrs. Donnell, if I did not see in 
it the hand of God. By thus settling ourselves away from 
the Church, we help to spread it. If the Catholics had stayed 
in New York, because there was the Catholic Church, in- 
stead of spreading out into the country, would there be to- 
day a' Catholic church in A?’ 

“ ‘ I don’t know as there would, Mr. Connor; but it must 
be a great trial for them to be so far from the comforts of 
their religion.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Mrs. Donnell, it is ; but, then, when we know that 
our trials are helping to spread it, we feel that we have been 
chosen to. do a great and a good work.’ 

“ ‘ And that you’ll be rewarded for your trials V 


810 


AGNES ; OE, 


“‘Yes, Mrs. Donnell, rewarded in seeing cliurclies spring 
np here and there, where, but for us, they would not be.’ 

“ Tired with his long walk, he found it impossible to sit 
any longer ; rising, he walked up and down the little room 
with a careful tread, as if he still had on his coarse, heavy 
boots, and was afraid of making too much noise. 

“ ‘And how, Mrs. Donnell,’ he asked, ‘ does Father John 
stand these long, tiresome rides ?’ 

“ ‘ I don’t see, Mr. Connor ; may the Lord save him ! I 
often fear he will sink under them, like Father Shiel. The 
Lord rest his soul ! it was just so with him. Never any 
rest day or night, summer or winter !’ Again she stepped 
into the next room, and after a few moments returned. ‘ I 
declare,’ she exclaimed, standing with her hand on the 
door, ‘ one would suppose Father John had enough to do 
without going to Haughton every seven or eight weeks*’ 

“ ‘ To Haughton, Mrs. Donnell to Haughton ?’ 

“ ‘ Why, bless you, yes ! Didn’t you know that he goes 
there ?’ 

“ ‘ No, this is the first I have heard of it. Bridget, do • 
you hear that ? Father John goes to Haughton !’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Father !’ was all the full heart of Bridget could 
say, and Mrs. Donnell continued : ‘ if it was only now and 
then that he went to Haughton, he might stand it ; but 
think of all the other amount of labor that’s on him besides 
that.’ 

“ ‘ If he only had a curate !’ 

“ ‘ Curate ! how can he get one when there’s not onougl 
priests to have one in nine places out of ten that needu 
them V 

“ ‘ Very true, Mrs. Donnell ; but may the great .God send 
faithful laborers to his vineyard ! In a few years, I. trust, we 
shall have more priests.’ 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


311 


‘ That is just what Father John himself was saying. But 
come, Mr. Conner, Bridget, Nellie, and all of you, tea is 
ready.’ 

“ She led the way into the next room, and taking the head 
of the table, pointed out a seat to each. Encouraged by her 
frank, hospitable ways, the children heartily enjoyed their 
meal. Little Miles awoke during it ; and rested with his 
long nap, had a fine appetite for the bread and milk Mrs. 
Donnell prepared for him. No symptom of childish fret- 
fulness did he show ; and Nellie, hugging and kissing him, 
declared there never was such a blessed little darling, and 
gave, as her candid opinion, that roses, after a shower, 
wouldn’t look fresher or more beautiful than he ; blessings 
on him ! Then he was handed round from one to another, 
that each might have the pleasure of hugging and kissing 
him. Finally, coming to little Joe, he refused to go any 
further ; but, with his fat little arm thrown lovingly round 
the orphan’s neck, sat looking the very picture of content. 

.“After tea, they all went over to see Father John. He 
looked so worn and exhausted, that it seemed years had 
been added to his age ; hut buoyant and hopeful, he spoke 
of the labors of his widely extended mis.sion in a tone that 
told he had a spirit happily suited to a pioneer priest. 

“ The children had intended telling them a great deal about 
their apples. When out at the time Mrs. Harny died, he 
stayed Dver night to the Connors, and going through their 
orchard, which had just began to bear, had expressed him- 
self greatly pleased with its size and variety. There were 
the trees with the Pound Sweets and Fall Pippins weighed 
clear down, and the Spitzenberghs and Greenans just as full 
as they could be. And Bernard requested Fanny and little 
Joe not to let him forget to tell him all about the plums, 
and pears, and — making a quick transition from the orchard 


312 


-A-GISjUiS ) OKj 


to the dairy — of the spotted-faced calf, line-back and brin- 
dle. They were sure it would all greatly interest him ; and 
then their Catechism — in their excitement they did not for- 
get this — ah, wouldn’t their knowing it so well more than 
all the rest delight his good heart ? and wouldn’t they be 
very happy, and have all to talk at once to get through in 
any reasonable time with their wonderful stock of. news. But 
now, standing before him, listening to his kind voice, and 
feeling his hand laid softly on their heads, they forgot all, 
and, embarrassed and frightened, . crowded up close to 
Bridget and their father, and only in a bashful and hesita- 
ting manner let out some little monosyllabic sound, intended 
for yes or no, to his kind questions. When, however, he 
touched on their Catechism, Bernard and little Joe looked 
up with more confidence ; and when Mr. Connor told the 
good Father that before they left home they could repeat 
every word from beginning to end, without ever a question 
put in to help them along, their cheeks became still more 
flushed, and tears of gladness glistened in their eyes. 

“ ‘ Father, please examine them from any place in it,’ said 
Mr. Connor, with parental pride. Then turning to his chil- 
dren, he fluttered his pocket-handkerchief in his hand and 
exclaimed : 

“ ‘ Come, come, children ; you mustn’t be afraid. Who’s 
going to harm you ? Hold up your heads, and answer his 
reverence.’ 

“ A number of questions were asked, as ‘ What are the 
marks of the true Church ;’ the ‘ Articles of the Apostles’ 
Creed ;’ the ‘ Spiritual and corporal works of mercy ;’ 
the ‘Cardinal virtues,’ ‘Theological virtues,’ ‘Seven 
sacraments,’ ‘ Gifts of the Holy Ghost,’ ete., etc. Although 
at first their answers were almost inaudible, they gained 
courage as they proceeded, and their voices became clear 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


313 


and distinct. Towards the close of the examination, Mr. 
Connor, who had scarcely taken his eyes from off them, 
began to be greatly troubled with a profuse perspiration, 
to judge from the way he rubbed his brow and cheeks, and 
when Father John called them good, industrious children, 
an honor to their parents’ Christian rearing, and bade them 
kneel and receive his blessing, he hastily walked over to 
the other side of the room, and, pretending to be greatly 
attracted by a picture on the wall, turned his back to the 
little company, and used the pocket-handkerchief more vig- 
ojously than ever. After the Catechism, Father John told 
Mr. Connor of a new church he was about building ; that he 
had already three hundred dollars collected, and in the bank, 
waiting till he should have enough to make some advances 
towards complete payment. 

“ ‘ In the mean time, Mr. Connor, we are using an old 
building, formerly a dwelling, for a chapel.’ 

“ ‘How long. Father, before you will be able to commence 
it V 

“ ‘,Oh, I hope to have it framed and inclosed by another 
year.’ 

“ ‘ And how often will you be able to go there V 

“ ‘ I suppose, unless I am so fortunate as to get a curate, 
not oftener than I go now, and that is only once in seven 
weeks ; and if I am much called off, not oftener than once 
in nine or ten. Oh, we need more priests ; we need more 
priests !’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Father, although few Catholics as yet, they are so 
widely scattered that one priest cannot possibly attend to 
them all. And Mrs. Donnell tells me that you come to 
Haughton.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Mr. Connor, there is where my new church is 

going to be.’ 

U 


814 


AGirais; OE, 


“ ‘ Haugfiton ! Haughton !’ he exclaimed, seizing the 
priest’s hand. 

“‘Yes, Mr. Connor,’ said Father John, smiling, ‘in 
Haughton.’ 

“ ‘ In Hanghton ! Oh, Father John, little did I ever think 
of a church being there. Why, it’s only sixteen miles from 
us. Children do you hear that ? Father John’s 'going to 
build a church for us in Haughton.’ 

“ Their bright smiles and beaming eyes told they had not 
been unattentive listeners.’ 

“ ‘ I didn’t know,’ said Mr. Connor, setting Miles down 
after a hearty caress, ‘ as there were any Catholics at all 
in Haughton, and, of course, didn’t know you went there, 
till Mrs. Donnell told me this afternoon. How long have 
you been going there ?’ 

“ ‘ About a year. I had been called to visit a sick man 
living five miles from Haughton. On my return, just 
as I reached Haughton, niy wagon broke. I stopped 
at a blacksmith’s in the place, and in the course of the con- 
versation, or rather in the course of answering his questions 
as to where I was raised, and what I drove at for a living, 
I told him I was a Catholic priest. Well, you may be sure 
he was surprised ; stopping from his work, he eyed me in- 
tently. ‘Well!’ he exclaimed, finishing his survey, and 
then quite silent went to work again. He worked on for 
some time ; suddenly pausing, he looked me full in the face, 
and remarked : ‘ I guess, Elder, you don’t know there’s 
some of your kind of people living round here.’ I told 
him no, I was not aware of it. ‘ How many are there ?’ I 
asked. ‘ Well, there are four families, I should think in all 
about twenty.’ After a slight pause, he added : ‘ They live 
down by the mill.’ ‘ Work in the mill V I asked. ‘ Some 
of them do, and some don’t ; O’Brien, you secj is a miller • 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


315 


he, of course, works in the mill ; Murphy and Sullivan work 
out by the month for farmers, and Redly works round 
wherever he can get a job.’ I asked : ‘ How long have they 
been residents of the place V ‘ Four months ; the mill was 
then finished, and O'Brien being hired to take charge of it, 
the rest moved in with him. I tell you what, Elder !’ he 
exclaimed, looking up and rubbing his hands, ‘ to-day is 

Saturday, and it’s so late that you cannot get back to A 

to-night — no use in trying !’ he nodded, seeing me about 
to speak : ‘ If you had started two hours ago, instead of 
waiting here to get your concern mended, you couldn’t 
have got there to-night ; so supposing you stay here, and 
preach for us for to-morrow ? I tell you, everybody will 
be to hear you, for, except them down at the mill, none of 
us ever heard a Catholic priest.’ I had not expected to 
reach A that night, but had intended staying over Sun- 

day in Littleton, and there offer up the Holy Sacrifice ; but 
thinking it might be the means our blessed Lord had cho- 
sen to draw these w^andering sheep into the true fold, I 
concluded to remain in Haughton.’ 

“ ‘But, Father John, you laughed,’ said Mike, forgetting 
his bashfulness, and grinning almost from ear to ear, ‘ at 
the way he called you Elder V 

“‘No, my child,’ Mndly replied Father John, ‘I was 
too much in earnest, and Mr. Franklin too unconscious of 
any blunder to mind it. Well, the news fiew from house 
to house. A Catholic priest was in the place, and was 
going to preach next day in the school-house. They all 
flocked in so fast at the blacksmith’s, that I hurriedly left, 
and repaired to O’Brien’s.’ Father John’s voice here 
grew husky, and his eyes filled. 

“ ‘ Oh, Mr. Connor,’ he said, ‘ I can’t tell you the joy of 
these poor creatures when they saw me, and heard I was a 


316 


AGNES ; OE, 


priest. They gathered around me, sobbing and crying, and 
trying to speak. I sank into a chair, completely overcome. 
I couldn’t help it,’ he exclaimed, dashing away a tear, ‘ it 
put me in mind of the fervor and piety of the early Chris- 
tians. I looked upon them as the Marys and Johns who 
remained faithful at the foot of the cross when prouder and 
sterner hearts trembled and shrank away.’ Father John 
paused, and after a few moments’ silence resumed : 

“‘The next morning, going over to the school-house, I met 
Mr. Franklin, the blacksmith. Well, Elder,” he said, 
“we’ve been talking it over among ourselves, and we think 
it best for you to preach to us under the trees back of the 
school-house ; there are so many coming that tliey can’t all 
get in.” ‘ But hold, sir,’ I asked, ‘ do they who live out of 
the village know of my being here V “ Why,” he answered, 
“ you see yesterday was Saturday, and there was a great 
many farmers in ; they brought the news home, and to-day 
they and many others will be in, and there’s not a man, 
woman, or child in the whole village but what will be here 
too.” 

“ ‘ The benches from the school-house were carried out, 
and these not sufficient, long boards were brought and other 
seats formed. Mrs. O’Brien sent up a table, and opening 
my portmanteau, I soon converted it^nto an altar. There, 
under the noble forest trees, with the blue sky arching above 
us, I robed myself to offer up the Holy Sacrifice. As I cast 
my eyes over the eager, wondering faces, thus strangely 
brought together, it reminded me of the multitude that used 
to flock to hear St. Paul and the other apostles, and I felt 
how unworthy was I to be a colaborer with them.’ Again 
his voice trembled, and he turned aside his head to hide 
his emotions. 

“ ‘ Well,’ he continued after a moment’s pause, and while 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


817 


a smile played round his expressive features, “ they were 
greatly pleased with the explanation of the Mass, but quite 
objected to its being in any other than the English lan- 
guage.” 

“ ‘ Didn’t like its being in any other than the English lan- 
guage, Father ; and did they think you’d change it to 
please their notions of what was right, and what wasn’t ?” 
indignantly asked Mr. Connor. 

“Softly the good priest laid*his hand on. Mr. Connor’s 
arm. ‘ My child,’ he said, ‘they meant no offence, it seemed 
to them incongruous, and they frankly owned it. This was 
much better, for I had taken thereby a fine opportunity, 
the next time I went there, to remove their prejudices, and 
further instruct them in our holy Faith.’ 

“ ‘ But, Father, how came you to go again ?’ 

“ ‘ I told you thei'e were four families in the place.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Father,’ said Mr. Connor, a broad smile of intense 
satisfaction lighting up his sunburnt features. 

“ ‘ Well, they told me,’ continued the priest, ‘ of another 
family, living about seven miles in one direction, and an- 
other about six miles in another direction, making, with the 
sick man’s family I had just visited, five miles away, seven 
in all. The O’Briens, and the rest round the mill, pressed 
me so hard to come again, that in six weeks I again went. 
These other families having been duly informed of my ex- 
pected visit, were there, and, all uniting, laid their cases so 
pressingly before me, that I was obliged to promise to visit 
them every seven or eight weeks, if -not called off by sick 
calls. I kept my promise, and the first I knew they hand- 
ed me a contribution of one hundred and fifty dollars 
towards building a church for them, declaring they could 
not live without one. Since then, one of the most promi- 
nent and intelligent men of the village, a Dr. Lawrence, 


318 


AGNES ; OE, 


from hearing the explanation of the Mass, became anxious 
to know more of our holy religion. I lent him Milner’s 
“ End of Religious Controversy,” “ Faith of Catholics,” and 
Bossuet’s “ Exposition of the Catholic Doctrine.” While 
reading and pondering over these, he called on me several 
tinfes ; indeed, every time I was in the village he took the 
opportunity to converse with me. on the subject of religion. 
His strong inquiring mind could not rest satisfied till it had 
sounded the depth of every question. His wife, a very in- 
telligent lady, joined him in his labors. A few months 
found them thoroughly acquainted with the Catholic refi- 
gion, and the last time I was there, five weeks to-morrow, 
I baptized them and their three children. Since then, he 
has sent me a letter inclosing fifty dollars, towards our little 
church ; the other hundred have been added to the fund by 
the congregation here.’ 

“ ‘ Praises to God !’ fervently ejaculated Mr. Connor, taking 
out a leather pocket-book, ‘ and. Father John, let me add 
my mite to it too,’ 

“ How much he added cannot with any certainty be told ; 
but Father John strongly insisted on his taking back a part, 
lest, in the impulse of the moment, he was giving more 
than he was able ; but Mr. Connor shook his head, gently 
pushed aside the priest’s hand, and arising, took little Miles 
in his arms. 

“ ‘ Come, children,’ he hurriedly exclaimed, ' we must be 
going, we are intruding on his reverence’s time.’ ” 

The fifth chapter concluded, but Agnes was too much 
engaged to pause; brushing back the ringlets from her 
brow, she commenced the sixth. Following her example, 
we also commence another. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

It was evident that the volume, so mysteriously appearing 
on her desk, possessed for her a strange, unaccountable in- 
terest. A softened expression played round her features as 
she read, and at times a moisture dimmed her eye. It was 
strange, passing strange, that this proud heiress should feel 
so interested in the life of the poor little orphan. 

“Early the next morning found the Connors in the 
church. Already had Mr. Connor, Bridget, Nellie, and Mike 
approached the peace-giving sacrament. Little Joe, with 
burning cheeks and downcast eyes, knelt in his pew shrink- 
ing from the duty before him. How could he tell all his 
faults of thought, word, and deed ? Father John now felt 
kindly towards him, but would he ever so much as speak 
to him again, when he should hear how very bad he had 
been ? Poor child ! All the frailties of his young life arose 
before him with startling vividness ; his heart grew faint, 
and a feeling of shame and anguish thrilled his soul. He 
cast a furtive glance at Bernard, his head was bowed and 
an expression of sorrow shaded his face. One after 
another went into the sacristy, yet he and Bernard stirred 
not. Mr. Connor looked uneasily at them, and finally, 
whispering a few encouraging words to J oe, took him by 
the hand, and led him to the door. A darkness came over 
the child-penitent; he ‘leaned heavily against his kind 
friend, and with his cold little hands wiped the drops from 


320 


AGNES ; OE, 


his brow. ‘ Oh, let me go back, Mr. Connor,’ he beseech- 
ingly whispered ; ‘ Oh let me go back.’ 

“ Mr. Connor bent over him till his dark locks touched his 
cheek, and in a low voice said : 

“‘Go back, little Joe, go back! Shame! shame! this 
is the devil’s tempting. Break from his snare, child, and 
go right in. What are you afraid of? Your father and 
mother are looking down upon you from their home in 
heaven this morning, and sure you won’t let them see you 
turn from God’s holy sacrament.’ 

“ At the niention of his parents’ names he yielded a pas- 
sive obedience. Mr. Connor opened the door, and he 
passed in. On his knees before the priest it seemed his 
soul would die within him ; he tried to repeat the Conji- 
teor but his lips refused to utter a single sound ; turning a 
wild and troubled look on the calm, mild countenance of 
the confessor, he bowed his head, and buried his face in 
his hands. 

“‘Poor child! poor child!’ murmured Father John, 
tenderly stroking the heavy mass of hair on the bowed 
head ; and then he spoke so kindly, so soothingly that the 
flood-gates of his soul opened, and tears streamed over his 
cheeks. In sobbing whispers, he poured into the priest’s 
ears all his faults since memory first dawned upon him. 
By timely questions, and assistance when his tongue was 
like to falter, he soon had told him all. It was a duty 
which had looked terrible to him, but now that he had 
courageously done it, what a load seemed lifted from his 
heart. Before he had sobbed through shame and fear, now, 
unable to contain the triumphant feeling that filled his 
heart, he bowed his head upon his hands, and sobbed 
again. After a slight pause. Father John spoke — Father 
John, that little Joe feared would never again speak to him 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


321 


when he should hear how very bad he had been. Ah, 
what benignity was in his voice ; what an interest he took 
in the orphan boy, and how earnestly he exhorted him to 
the faithful observance of his religious duties. With heart 
brim full of blissful emotions little Joe listened to his 
every word. The penance he gave him, he never forgot, 
it was to say for two weeks a prayer his mother had loved 
so much, St. Bernard’s Prayer to the Blessed Virgin = 
* 0 memorare.’ With a light buoyant step he returned 
to his seat. ‘ Go, Bernard,’ he whispered, ‘ don’t be 
afraid, you don’t know how happy you will feel after.’ 

“Like him, poor Bernard went in pale and trembling; and, 
like him, he returned joyous and light hearted. Blessed, 
blessed religion ! that soothes and comforts the timid and 
desponding, and holds back and restrains the bold and 
the reckless ; that bravely battles with the vices of life, and 
gives strength to bear patiently its ills ; that cherishes the 
poor as well as the rich, and feels for all alike the tender 
love of a mother. Oh, blessed, blessed be God forever 
for this beautiful, this holy religion ! 

“ At length Father John got through with the confessions, 
the sacristy door opened, and a little boy in a long, red 
robe, and over it a short white tunic, confined at the waist 
with a red sash, came in. In one hand he carried a tiny 
pitcher, in the other a small basin ; he laid them on a light 
stand on the right side of the altar, and presently another 
little boy, robed in the same manner, came in with a towel 
Then there was a great passing in and out from the sacristy 
to the altar, of the two boys. Little Joe could not help 
watching their movements. How favored they seemed to 
him, handling those consecrated things, laying the book 
frame on one side, placing the large volume upon it, light- 
ing the candles, then placing the little bell and prayer-book 


322 


AGNES ; OE, 


on the steps opposite to that side of the altar on which the 
great book was lying. They were not as large as he 
or Bernard, they were not larger than Hughy; he won- 
dered if they would ever be priests, and if priests, if they 
would be as good as Father John. Father John was the 
best in the world, there never was such a dear, good priest. 
He placed his hands upon his heart all fluttering with joy. 
The chains that bound him had fallen oft', and a glad feel- 
ing of exultation thrilled his whole being. Tears forced 
their way over his flushed cheeks, bowing his head to hide 
them, he forgot everything but his great happiness till the 
deep toned voice of Father John struck on his ear. 

“ ‘ In nomine Patris^ et Pilii, ef Spiritus Sancti.\ 

“ Raising his head, he hastily opened his prayer-book, and 
tried to follow the order of the Mass ; he followed as far 
2iS Sanctus ! Sanctiis ! Sanctus P when again kneeling, 
the words swam before his eyes, he closed the book, and 
bowing his face upon his hands, thought of the Sacriflce 
of Cavalry, the darkness that overspread the whole earth, 
the rending of the veil of the temple, the graves opening 
and the dead appearing to many. Sitting on his father’s 
knee, many a winter’s evening had he listened to the won- 
drous history of man’s redemption, and now it all arose 
before him. An oppressive silence, disturbed by not the 
slightest sound, fllled the whole church ; a great awe came 
over him, he scarcely dared to breathe ; the Sacrifice of 
Propitiation that was offered up to God the Father eight- 
een hundred years before, was renewed that morning in 

the plain little chapel of A . ‘ Prom the rising of the 

sun even to the going down thereof,’ shall this glorious 
sacrifice be renewed — renewed till that morn when the 
heavens shall roll back as a scroll, the earth, and all that 
is in it pass away, and the new Jerusalem come down. ^ 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


328 


“At the Communion, Mr. Connor, Bridget, Mike and 
Nellie, with the other communicants crowded round the 
altar railing. Little Joe looked at them, and thought a 
time would come when he also would be allowed to ap- 
proach the Sacred Table. Oh, how he longed for that 
time. On conclusion of the Mass they remained for some 
time in the church to ofFei* up thanks for the inestimable 
favor they had received, and then returned to Mrs. Don- 
nell. 

“ Little Miles had awakened during their absence, and in 
his night-dress, on the floor, was amusing himself with the 
various playthings Mrs. Donnell gathered around him ; but 
when he saw the sight of his father coming through the 
gate, he turned from them all, clapped his dimpled hands, 
and shouted with delight. After breakfast, he was carefully 
dressed, and, in his green suit, looked so charming, that 
again he w^as hugged and kissed by them all, and again he 
chose to remain with little Joe. This preference of his quite 
excited the jealousy of Hughy. He insisted on Miles stay- 
ing with him. 

“ ‘ Come,’ said he, taking hold of his arm, ‘ come to me. 
Little Joe’s no brother of yours; he ain’t got no brother 
or sister.’ 

“ ‘ Poor Joe ; in a moment his loneliness all pressed upon 
him, his lip trembled, and a tear filled his eye.’ 

“ ‘ For shame, Hughy!’ they all exclaimed, ‘for shame! 
Little Joe is brother to us, and we are brothers and sisters 
to him !’ 

“ ‘ But a host of painful recollections crowded fast upon 
him; he longed to be alone where he might cry; before 
them all, he must control his feeling ; his crying would 
grieve them, and would it not be wrong to grieve his kind 
friends on such a morning ? He bowed his head, and, pre- 


324 


AGNES ; OK, 


tending to be engaged examining little Miles’s green shoes, 
managed to maintain a calm exterior. 

“ Half-past ten o’clock found them again in church ; the 
worshipping strains of the organ raised him above all his 
sorrow, and filled his heart with the peace of the early 
morning. No longer he felt alon'e ; but it seemed, afar off, 
he could hear the choirs of heaven joining the choirs of 
earth in their hallelujahs to the Lord. All through the 
Mass he was like one raised above earth and all its sorrows. 
In the afternoon he attended Vespers, and the Benediction 
of the Blessed Sacrament ; in the evening, joined the Rosary 
class. Oh, day of bliss ! day of happiness unspeakable ! 

“ The going to A , to attend Mass, was the grand 

event of Joe Harny’s year to the Connors. For weeks be- 
fore, nothing else was talked of ; for weeks after, it was still 
the loved topic of conversation ; and when, in after-life, he 
looked back on the first year of his orphanage, this day 
loomed up so bright that it seemed a sun in the firmament 
of memory, lighting and shedding a halo of peace and hap- 
piness o’er all the other days of that year. Thus it is ; 
memory centres itself round only the great events of a life- 
time. . They come forward like the principal groupings of 
a picture; everything about them is bold and prominent; 
all the little incidents that are disposed of here and there on 
the canvas of life, only tend to make more marked the 
light and shade of these, to mellow and enrich their 
tints. 

“ Before starting for home, Monday morning, they 
repaired to Father John’s, to bid him good-by ; but already 
had he been hurried away on a sick-call. With a fervent 
prayer that he might be endued with strength to carry him 
through his arduous duties, and not sink under them, like 
Father Shiel, they turned from his humble door. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


325 


“ A great many words passed between them and Mrs. 
Donnell, on parting ; so many, indeed, that Mr. Connor 
thought they would never end ; but at last they were over, 
and they found themselves on their way home. For six or 
seven miles, it was pleasant enough ; but when they left the 
turnpike, then it was that each, down to Hughy, began 
to feel the terrible jolting occasioned by the half-decayed 
logs thrown, every few feet, across the road. The country 
along here, had a wild and lonesome look; low marshy 
soil, overgrown with small, stunted cedar, rank underbrush 
and tall flag, gave a sombre, desolate appearance to the 
whole. With its stagnant, greenish pools, oppressive heat, 
and swarming mosquitoes, it seemed the very hot-bed of 
ague and fever. To the children, it brought to mind every 
horrible story they had ever heard ; and many and thrilling 
enough to please the most ardent admirer of sensation 
stories, were the legends they told of credulous victims 
having been deluded into just such places, robbed, cruelly 
murdered, and while their friends, alarmed at their long ab- 
sence, were offering large rewards for their discovery, there, 
under the dank weeds, moldering away to skeletons. 

“ There was a peculiar grating on the nerve-kind of fas- 
cination in these stories ; although their blood thrilled with 
horror, and they repeatedly crossed themselves while listen- 
ing, no sooner was one finished then they were eager for 
another. But when they left the swampy loAvlands, and 
began to climb the high hills which lay between them and 
home, the nightmarish legends were all forgotten, and they 
began to wonder if the bees under the long shed had 
swarmed. 

“ ‘ I hope not,’ said Mr. Connor, taking off his hat and 
wiping the perspiration from his face, ‘ I fear Ellen and 
Maurice would have trouble hiving them.’ 


326 


AGNES; OE, 


“ ‘ Yes, indeed,’ said Bridget ; ‘ yon know what trouble 
we all had when the two swarms went to Mr. Allen’s 
woods.’ 

“ ‘ And you remember father,’ said Mike, from the mid- 
dle seat, ‘ how I got stung ?’ 

“‘Sure it would be short memory I’d have, Mike, if I 
could so soon forget that.’ 

“ ‘ And, father,’ said Bernard, with a twinkle of humor 
in his eye, ‘ do you remember how he rolled and kicked on 
the floor that night, and what terrible roars the pain forced 
from him ? Why, I think if it hadn’t been for mother’s 
saleratus, that he’d have been roaring still.’ 

“ All laughed but Mike ; he colored, and hastened to turn 
the conversation. 

“ ‘ Father,’ he asked, ‘ do yon think that the wheat will 
Be ready to cut next week ?’ 

“ ‘ Well, yes ! if the rain keeps off, I think we may be • 
in it.’ 

“ ‘ And how much will we have to the acre ?’ 

“ ‘ I shouldn’t be surprised if we had thirty bushels. It’s 
a good piece of ground, and Maurice put in at the right 
time.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, just in the right time, father,’ said Mike, pretend- 
ing not to see the pantomime Bernard, on the back seat, 
was enacting for his especial benefit, distorting his features, 
writhing, twisting — in fine, going through all the agon}^ of 
an imaginary bee-sting, ‘just in the right time. But if he 
had waited till after that rain, it would have been a fortnijrht 
later ; for, you know, it rained a whole week, and it would 
have taken another week for the ground to have been dry 
enough to plough.’ 

‘“‘You are right, Mike,’ said Mr. Connor, perfectly un- 
conscious of the suppressed roars of laughter behind him, 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


* and it’s not rancli I’d give for wheat put in later than the 
middle of September.’ 

“‘Oh! what will mother say,’ suddenly exclaimed 
Bridget, ‘ when she hears Father John comes to Haughton ?’ 

“ ‘ Faith, and maybe she’ll think we are fooling her, as 
she thought I was, when I brought home the news that 

they were going to build a church in A .’ Mr. Connor 

laughed at the remembrance of his wife’s incredulous look 
on that memorable night, and then further observed : 

“ ‘ But, it will be glad news to her. Sixteen miles from 
our house to Haughton! why that will be nothing; we’ll 
be there every time Father John is — but, I declare this road 
is horrible. Not a single break up the whole hill to rest 
the poor horses. See how wet they are ! Boys, get out ; 
it’s enough to drag an empty wagon up such a hill as this 
is.’ 

“Giving the reins to Bridget, he sprung out himself, the 
boys quickly followed his example, declaring it much pleas- 
anter out than in. Little Miles stretched his dimpled 
hands to be taken out too ; his father lifted him in his arms, 
and carried him a part of the way up, then his brothers 
took him, and in this way, laughing and crowing, and per- 
fectly happy, baby Miles reached the top of the hill. They 
were far ahead of the team, and seating themselves under 
the shade of a wide-spreading tree, waited the coming of 
the patient, toiling horses. At length they, too, reached 
the top, and then, fastening the back wheels, to secure them 
from rolling, they once more got in. Bridget, stout-hearted 
girl as she was, shrank back, as, on the front seat, she 
watched the cramping of the horses, striving to hold the 
heavy wagon back The far-bending sky, the wdld and 
beautiful scenery, the wide-spreading forests, the rich fields 
of waving grain, the farm houses, some of them log, some 


128 


AGNES ; OE, 


frame, stretching along the way had great charms for them, 
hut still they counted the hills they would have to climb 
and descend before reaching home, and deep was the sym- 
pathy they expressed for poor Father John, that rain or 
shine, had so often to go over them. At last, as the sun 
was sinking to rest, on a bed of purple and golden clouds, 
they reached the village of Stanton, and thence had a plea- 
sant, even road home. A fine supper waited them, which 
having done ample justice to, they, the children, very 
happy and very tired, went to bed, leaving Bridget and 
Mr. Connor to tell their mother and Maurice all the particu- 
lars of Father John, and his new church in Haughton.” 

As Agnes concluded the chapter she arose, slipped the 
manuscript into her desk, and had just lowered the lid 
when her mother came in. 

“Agnes, dear!” she tenderly remarked, “you have not 
slept any since your return.” 

With a severe countenance and repellant voice, she re- 
plied, “ No, and neither do I wish for sleep.” 

“ But you are pale, and your eyes weary ;” said Mrs. 
Hilton, unheeding her coldness. 

“ Does your head ache, darling ?” she inquired, laying 
her soft hand on her brow. 

“ What makes you ask ?” There was an unsteadiness 
in her voice, and a tremor of her proud lips. 

“ Because, darling, although pale, your forehead is hot.” 

“ It does ache a little,” she admitted. 

“ Well then, dear Agnes, come and have some toast and 
a cup of tea ; you can lie down then and sleep.” 

Again her countenance became cold and repellant. “ I 
neither wish for toast, tea, nor rest.” 

Her mother saw it would be useless to urge her, and 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


329 


hoping to gain upon her by kind attentions, sbe wheeled 
up an arm-chair before the grate, and placed an ottoman 
before it. “ Sit down, darling,” she said, leading her to it, 
“ and tell me how you left Edith ?” 

Unable to resist her endearing tenderness, Agnes sank 
into it. “ She slept a couple of hours in the latter part of 
the night,” .she answered, “ and this morning felt better.” 

“ I am glad to hear it ; yesterday I called to see her, she 
looked haggard and worn, and coughed incessantly. Poor 
child ! I wonder her strength holds out as it does.” 

“ It will not hold out much longer.” Agnes’s eyes were 
bent thoughtfully upon the fire. 

“No, I fear not; she has greatly changed for the last 
few weeks.” 

“And you pity her mother Agnes asked, suddenly 
raising her head. 

“Yes, Agnes, from the bottom of my heart; and I pray 
God that she may be able to bear her trial with Christian 
patience and resignation.” 

“ I pray she may ; but, mother !” she spoke with bitter 
emphasis, “ I would it were I, instead of Edith, that was 
now on the death-bed ; you, instead of Mrs. Carter, that 
was called upon to witness a daughter’s dying struggles.” 

An agony swept over Mrs. Hilton’s face. “,Agnes ! 
Agnes !” she faintly exclaimed. 

“ Even so, mother ; from my heart I fervently wish it. 
You might grieve for a while, but Martha Clement’s sooth- 
ing ways would make you soon forget your loss. She 
would teach you Christian patience and resignation.” 
There was an intolerable irony in her voice. 

“ God help you, my child ; God help you !” replied her 
motlier, loaning heavily for support against the low mantel- 
piece. Then, after a slight pause, she added: “Agnes, 


330 


AGNES ; OR, 


why should you feel so to Martha ? she in no way intrudes 
herself on your notice — in no way presumes because her 
brother is adopted into the family. I never saw a more 
modest or unassuming girl.” 

“ I am glad you like her so well ; glad, too, that she is so 
worthy of your distinguished regard,” was the mocking 
reply. 

Pale as the marble statue of death, Mrs. Hilton exclaim- 
ed : “ May God forgive you, Agnes ! but you are breaking 
my heart.” 

There was a pathos in her voice that brought tears to 
Agnes’s eyes. With all her pride she tenderly loved her 
mother, and but for that baneful passion, would have ever 
treated her with kindness and respect. 

Mother !” she brokenly replied, “ you once loved me ; 
but that day is past, and others have supplanted me in your 
affection.” 

Mrs. Hilton feebly approached her, and tenderly threw 
her arms around her. “ Oh ! Agnes, Agnes !” she exclaimed, 
“ put away this foolish jealousy. None ever has — ever can 
supplant you in iny affection. Freely would I lay my life 
down to make you happy.” 

Agnes dashed the tears from her eyes, and in a quick, 
hurried manner said : Mother, give me some proof of your 
love, that I may believe it. . Send Martha home, or return 
Mark to his family.” 

Mrs. Hilton was deeply pained. Seating her^lf beside 
Agnes, she laid her hand impressively upon her arm, and 
in a low, earnest voice said; “Agnes, your father’s sacred 
honor is engaged in this affair. How, or wherefore, an- 
other day you shall know ; at present I am not at liberty to 
tell. But, as you value your after peace of mind, I beg 
you to look more favorably upon Martha and her brother. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


331 


You will have reason to rejoice if you do ; to regret, if you 
do not. Take a mother’s warning word in time.” 

Agnes looked up in surprise. “ Mother !” she exclaimed, 
“ what do you mean ? your words seem full of mystery.” 

I cannot now farther explain my meaning, but consider 
what I have said.” The breakfast-bell rang, and Mrs. Hil- 
ton rose. 

“ Agnes, dear, if you do not feel able to come down to 
the dining-room, I will send Nora up with some toast and 
tea, that,Avill quiet your nervesj ^so that after it you can lie 
down and sleep.” 

“ No, mother, you need not. I cannot possibly take any 
thing this morning.” Mrs. Hilton bent over her, tenderly 
kissed her, and left the room. 

Alone, before the grate, with her head resting on her 
hand, Agnes Hilton dwelt on the strangeness of her 
mother’s words. In what way could her father’s honor be 
engaged in the keeping or dismissing^ of Martha. For a 
long time she puzzled her mind to find a clue that would 
unravel the mystery, hut her efforts were vain. At length, 
arising, she walked into her, chamber, bathed her forehead 
and eyes, and returning to her room, seated herself before 
her desk, and tried to read, but the volume she had opened 
proved dry and tedious. Taking out her drawing materials, 
she was soon engrossed copying a wild and picturesque scene 
from the Alps. ' ' 


332 


AGNES ; OR, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

It was evening, and again was the Graham family gath- 
ered in the sitting-room. Mr. Graham was reading aloud 
from his paper an interesting account of the laying of the 
corner-stone of a new church. Of course, his paper was 
Catholic ; he would have considered it a sinful apathy to 
neglect so powerful a means of keeping himself and his 
family informed of the progress which the Church of God 
was making in the great world ; its trials in one place, its 
sufferings ip another, and its triumph everywhere. There, 
in their retired country-home, they listened every week to 
the sermons preached to them through the columns of their 
paper by the most eloquent divines of the day. What his 
Holiness the Pope, or his Eminence, such or such a Cardi- 
nal ; or his Grace, such or such an Archbishop ; or such a 
Bishop or Priest said on this or that subject, they knew 
perfectly well entered into all their views, and talked as if 
they enjoyed an intimate acquaintance with them all. As for 
the lighter literature, what cared he for the startling, thrill- 
ing stories of the sensation papers ? he never read them — 
never allowed the pure minds of his children to be sullied 
with them. The Catholic world of mind furnished them 
with a healthful class of works especially adapted for the 
young ; there no false, sickly sentiments were imbibed ; no 
disrelish for the plain realities around them ; but many an 
excellent lesson was learned, many a sound common-sense- 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


353 


view of life taken. Jane, gentle and loving, was naturally 
of a very impressible, romantic turn, and fatal to her would 
have been the reading of the trashy, flimsy stuff, called 
“ fashionable novels.” Of the works derived from a source 
not purely Catholic, the parents carefully looked them over, 
to see there was in them nothing injurious to faith or mor- 
als, before intrusting them to their children’s hands, and 
in like manner should every Christian parent act. 

Mr. Graham had finished the article on the new church, 
and after each had made a few remarks on the beautiful 
and appropriate words spoken by the bishop on the oc- 
casion, he turned to another; he read that and several 
others, and at last his eye rested upon a piece of poetry in 
one corner. 

“ Becky,” he said, “ here is something your voice can 
do better justice to than mine.” 

“ What is it, IJncle,” she asked, looking up from her 
sewing. 

“ It is poetry, entitled, ^ Mother of Mercy,’ and written 
by Father Faber.” 

“ Dear Father Faber ! Oh, it must be beautiful. I love 
anything coming from his pen !” 

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Jane, “his pure thoughts and 
the sweetness of his language are like pearls strung to- 
gether with golden links !\’ 

As Becky reached her hand for the paper, the door 
opened, ^and grandfather and grandmother entered. Mrs. 
Graham instantly arose, and stepped to George and Henry 
who were each occupying their grandparents’ comfortable 
chairs near the fire. 

“Children,” she gently said, “your grandfather and 
grandmother have come, and you must move to other 
seats.” 


t 


334 OB, 

They at once vacated them;, and Henry was drawing up; 
another chair, when grandfather with his cane pointed to 
the soft cushioned-stool at his feet, he sunk upon it, while 
George seated himself at his -mother’s side, and l^id his 
head on her lap. 

“Grandfather and grandmother,” said Becky, holding 
the paper da her hand, “,I was about , reading a beautiful 
poem from one of our best writers, would you not like to 
hear it ?” 

“Yes, child,” replied grandfather, “we are weary, and 
poetry is just the thing to rest our minds.” 

In a finely modulated voice, Becky read : 

“ Mother of Mercy ! day by day 

My love for thee grows more and more ; 

Thy gifts are strewn upon my way, 

Like sands Upon the great sea-shore. 

Though poverty and work and woe 
The masters of my life may be, 

When times are worst, who does not know, 

Darkness is light with love of thee. 

But scornful men have coldly said 
Thy love was leading me from God; 

And yet in this I did but tread 
The very path my Saviour trod. 

They know but little of thy worth 

Who speak these heartless things to me ; 

For what did Jesus love on earth 
One half so tenderly as thee ? 

, jf 

Get me the grace to love thee more ; 

Jesus will grant if thou wilt plead ; 

And, Mother, when life’s cares are o’er, 

Oh, I shall love thee then indeed! 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


336 


Jesus, when his three hours were run, 

Bequeathed thee from the cross to me ; 

And ohl how can I love the Son, 

Sweet Mother I if I love not thee ?” 

As Becky concluded the beautiful lines, a radiant glow 
lit up her thoughtful face. “ No, no,” she exclaimed, clasp- 
ing her hands, and looking upward, “ how could we love 
the sweet Jesus, if we loved not his blessed mother ?” 

Mr. Graham was about to speak, but grandfather hastily 
interrupted what he was going to say. 

“ Becky, child,” he exclaimed, rising, “ will you come 
with us — mother and I — to our room ?” 

“Yes, grandfather, with all pleasure.” She laid aside 
the paper, rolled up her sewing, and placed it in her work- 
basket. 

“ Father,” said Mr. Graham, taking the little lamp from 
the mantlepiece and lighting it for him, “ I was in hopes 
you and mother would stay with us awhile.” 

“No, Walter; you, Fanny, and the children enjoy your 
paper, mother and I are called to labor ; we cannot rest.” 

Tears sprang to the son’s eyes ; he remembered his own 
trials and struggles in the years long past. “ Father,” he 
exclaimed, warmly pressing his hand, “ you are going over 
the same field Sarah and I once went over. We were often 
weary — often felt we should faint on the way, but the 
good God directed our steps, till at last we found rest. In 
like manner he is now guiding and directing you and 
mother, and in like manner will you also find rest.” 

“ Walter,” replied the old man, while with a quick move- 
ment of his disengaged hand, he swept the thin locks back 
from his ample brow, “ time was when such words would 
have sotlnded like mockery to us, but we see things in a dif- 
ferent light ; our labor is not hopeless, for we feel we shall 


336 AGNES ; OE, 

be carried tbrouffb it.” Mr. Graham followed them to the 

O 

door. 

Keaching their room^ grandfather stirred up the fire, and 
put on more wood. Becky placed the little lamp on the 
mantlepiece, lighted the astral on the table, and drew up a 
chair near to her grandparents ; when seated grandmother 
said : 

“ Dear Becky, father and I had well considered the sub- 
ject of your last conversation — had studied the books you 
pointed out to us, and our minds satisfied as to the strong 
Scriptural proof supporting the Catholic’s belief concerning 
the Mass and Sacraments. We intended resting before pro- 
ceeding to other matters, but, as father says, labor is before 
us, and we cannot rest till our task is accomplished. The 
reading of those verses, which fell with wonderful sweetness 
upon our souls, reminds us of another question we would 
like to discuss.” 

“ What is it, grandmother!” 

“ Invocation of the saints. You recollect you were to 
speak to us about it.” 

“ Yes, grandmother, I do.” 

Grandfather had been thoughtfully looking into the fire. 
“ Child,” he exclaimed, suddenly turning to Becky, “ much 
has been said about the Catholic’s devotion to the Virgin 
Mary, that they honor her with the homage which alone 
belongs to God, and look upon her as equal, if not superior, 
to her divine Son.” 

“ Grandfather, if you study the Catholic’s belief concern- 
ing this point, you will see how very different it is to their 
enemies’ account of it. Catholics honor the blessed Virgin 
as the mother of God, by being the mother of Him, who 
in one and the same person, is both God and man.* They 
♦ Challoner, p. 228 . 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


337 


hold as an article of hiith he came into the world free from 
any touch of original sin ; that as she was destined from 
all eternity to be the mother of Him ‘ who is the author of 
grace, who came to destroy sin,’ so she was by a special 
prerogative of grace preserved pure above all creatures in 
heaven or on earth. The angel Gabriel, when bringing to 
her his wonderful embassy, saluted her as full of grace. 
Jesus was born of her, she was His mother, nursed and 
tended Him in His infancy, watched over Him during His 
childhood, and ever enjoyed the delight of His divine pres- 
ence. How pure, how holy she must have been ! and loving, 
and honoring Jesus, how can we help loving and honoring 
His blessed mother? Yes, we do love her, we do honor 
her, and in this, as Father Faber beautifully expresses it, 

‘We do but tread 

The very paik our Saviour trod. 

Did he not, after astonishing the learned doctors with his 
wisdom at the early age of twelve, return with his blessed 
.mother and foster hither to Nazaretli, and remain subject 
to them ? Did he not, at her suggestion, even before his 
hour had come, perform his first miracle ? Did he not, 
when writhing on the cross, his whole frame racked with 
pain, in the midst of all his agony, all his intense sufifering, 
feel for her sorrow, her loneliness and desolation ? Did not 
all the tenderness of his heart go out to her when he con- 
signed her to the care of that disciple whom he loved? To 
John he said, ‘Behold thy mother!’ and to Mary, ‘ Behold 
thy son !’ 'and the gospel, with touching pathos, tells us, 
‘that from that hour the disciple took her as his own.’ Yes, 
from that hour she became the mother of Christians. Christ 
is our Saviour, Mary, his holy mother, is our mother, and as 
15 


338 


AGNES ; OE, 


cHldren we love and reverence her ; we ask her to pray for 
us, feeling assured that He who refused not on earth to 
grant her petitions will not now in heaven refuse to grant 
them. But, grandfather and grandmother, while we look 
upon her as raised above the angels and saints, and occu- 
pying a station far above them, we know there is still 
an infinite distance between her and God, and in no way 
do we pay her the worship or homage which alone belongs 
to Him. This would be a heinous crime, is strongly for- 
bidden by the Church, and would bring upon one so olfend- 
ing, the severest censures. Our enemies accuse us of idola- 
try ; they maintain that the Church of Rome, meaning the 
Catholic, ‘has other gods beside the Lord,’ and that, because 
we ask the saints and angels to pray for us, we have brought 
back the heathen multitude of deities into Christianity ; 
but, grandfather and grandmother, hear what the Catholic 
Church teaches concerning invocation of the saints. ‘ That 
the saints who reign with Christ ofter up their prayers to 
God for men, and that it is useful and good to invoke them, 
and to have recourse to their prayers, help, and assistance, 
in order to obtain blessings from God, through his Son 
Jesus Christ our Lord, who alone is our Redeemer and 
Saviour.'* And so strongly marked is the difference be- 
tween the homage we pay to God and the respect we pay 
to the angels and saints, that a child, acquainted with the 
rudiments of the Christian doctrine, cannot err in this point; 
The little Catechism placed in his hands, tells him that the 
angels and saints are to be honored as God’s special friends 
and servants, but not with that honor which belongs to 
God, that he is to ask their prayers, not as if they were the 
authors or dispensers of pardon, grace, or salvation ; or as if 


* Council Trid. Sess. 26 de Invoc. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITT. 


339 


they had any power to help us independently of God’s good 
will and pleasure,^ but being loosed from the bqnds of the 
flesh, and enjoying the presence of God, they w'ould obtain 
from Him that which he stands in need of. Gother, an 
eminent divine, in his ‘ Catholic Misrepresented and Repre- 
sented,’ after refuting the charge of idolafty against us, 
solemnly declares, ‘ Cursed is he that believes the saints in 
heaven to be his redeemers, that prays to them as such, or 
that gives God’s honor to them, or to any * creature what- 
ever.’ And as regards the Blessed Virgin, the most pure 
of all created excellence, ‘ Cursed is he that believes the 
Blessed Virgin Mary to be any more than a creature ; that 
worships her, or puts his trust in her more than in God ; 
that believes her above her Son, or that she can in any 
thing command him.’f Does this look like idolatry ? does it 
look like the Catholic Church having other gods beside the 
Lord ? or ‘ bringing back the multitude of heathen deities 
into Christianity ?’ ” 

Grandfather and grandmother’s eyes had been riveted on 
Becky ; and in silence had they listened to her words, but 
now grandfather spoke : 

“Child,” he said, “I would ask, as long -as we have a 
mediator with the Father, Christ Jesus, what need have we 
of others ; but, before I do so, speaking of that part of the 
invocation of saints which particularly treats of its idolatrous 
tendencies, I would like you to tell mother and I why the 
Catholics have statues of the Virgin and saints in their 
houses, and why they always place them in their Churches ?” 

“ It is, grandfather and grandmother, to keep in lively 
remembrance the virtues which made the servants of God 

* Challoner, p. 218. 

f Catholic MisrejH-esented and Represented. Abridg. p. 18. 


340 


AGNES ; OR, 


SO pleasing to tlieir Creator, to recall our minds from dis- 
tractions, and raise tliem to heavenly things; but by no 
means to worship them. On this subject the first Catechism 
placed in the hands of children says, in answer to the 
questions : ‘ Is it allowable to honor relics, crucifixes, images, 
and holy pictures?’ ‘Yes, with an inferior and relative 
honor, they relate to Christ and his saints, and are me- 
morials of them.’ To the very next question : ‘ May we 
then pray to rdics- and images ?’ The plain, unequivocal 
answer is : ‘ No, by no means ; for they have no life or sense' 
to hear or help us.’ ” 

“But, child, did not God in his second commandment 
forbid the making of any image, or the likeness of any thing 
that is in the heaven above, the earth beneath, or the waters 
under the earth ?” 

“ Grandfather, he forbid the making of them, to worship 
or pay divine honors to, for he immediately adds: ‘Thou 
shalt not adore, nor serve them ;’ but as for the making of 
images for other purposes, he certainly did not forbid it, for 
we see in Exodus, xxv. 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, he commands 
Moses to make two cherubim of beaten gold, and place 
them in the tabernacle ; their wings expanded, covering both 
sides of the propitiatory and oracle, and thence, from the 
midst of the cherubim he would speak to him. Now, if the 
mere making of images had been forbidden in the command- 
ments, the first, too, according to our division of them, 
would God have ordered Moses to make them, and promise 
from their midst to speak to him ? Again, in Numbers, xxi., 
we see when the people offended the Lord, and were pun- 
ished with fiery serpents, God then commanded Moses to 
make a brazen serpent, and set it up for a sign, that whoso- 
ever was struck looking upon it might be saved. And in 
John, iii. 14, 15, our blessed Saviour tells us that this was 




\ 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


41 


an emblem of himself : ‘ For as Moses lifted up the serpent 
in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up, that 
whosoever believeth in him may not perish, but may have 
life everlasting.’ ” 

“Child,” exclaimed grandfather, “hand me the Bible!” 

“ Your Bible, grandfather?” she asked. 

“ No, child, but yours.” From the time she brought him 
Ward’s ‘Errata on the Protestant Bible,’ he had used no 
other than the Douay version. She handed it to him, and he 
carefully read over the passages to which she had referred. 

“Surely, child,” he exclaimed, “ I see no commandment 
against the making of images, when divine honor is not in- 
tended to be paid to them ! Mother,” he bitterly added, 
turning to hei-, “ it seenis to me the strangest thing in hu- 
man nature that the Protestant world should be so blind 
to this distinction.” 

“ Father, I am thinking it is not altogether blindness, but 
a spirit to bring accusations against the Catholic Faith, for 
we all know as to the making of images or likenesses, en- 
tirely forgetting that innocent misconception of the second, 
or, as Becky calls it, the first commandment ; that they are 
ready enough to make images or statues of statesmen, gen- 
erals, or others who have, in any way, rendered themselves 
famous. They even profess a great admiration for the 
statues of Yenus, Jupiter, Cupid, and other heathen deities. 
And, as to pictures, why the world is flooded with them ; 
every house we enter we find portraits, daguerreotypes, like- 
nesses, all in direct opposition to their pretended belief of 
this commandment.” 

“ Mother, it is prejudice — a prejudice which blunts the 
judgment and darkens the understanding. As far as our 
own pictures and statues were "concerned, the distinction 
was always clear enough, it was only when the Catholics 


342 


AGNES ; OE, 


were brought in question that we suddenly lost sight of it. 
They worshipped their statues and pictures, hence to them 
was this commandment a sweeping denunciation against all 
pictures and statues. ‘ As ye mete to others, so shall it be 
meted to you.’ ” Grandfather bowed his head upon his 
hands and groaned aloud. In a kind and soothing voice 
Becky spoke : 

“ Grandfather, you had been taught to believe that the 
Catholics worshipped their pictures and statues, and. that 
was the reason you looked upon this commandment as par- 
ticularly directed against them.” 

“ Child,” he exclaimed, looking wildly up, “ your words 
madden me ; they mock me ! Been taught ! Did not God 
give me sense to search, find out, and know for myself? 
Was I to take the ipsi dixit of interested parties, and blindly 
follow their teachings ?” 

“ But, grandfather, although it is at the eleventh hour that 
you have begun your work, trusting in the mercy and good- 
ness of God, despair not ; at the close of the day you will 
get your reward with the other laborers.” 

The troubled expression passed from his lips, he smiled, 
and reaching out his hand, softly laid it on her head ; he did 
not speak, but silently it seemed he was invoking a blessing 
upon her. 

“ Grandfather,” observed Becky, after a few moments, 
“ you speak about having one Mediator with the Father, 
our blessed Saviour.” 

“ Yes, child,” he replied, rousing himself from the revery 
into which he had fallen, “ we must understand the whole 
question ; no hurried glance and hasty conclusion will satisfy 
us. When St. Paul says that there is one Mediator be- 
tween God and men, the man Christ Jesus,’* I want you 
* 1 Timothy, ii. 5. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


343 


to tell us, cHld, on what ground the Catholics have so 
many V 

“ Grandfather, the Catholic Church holds that Christ is 
alone our mediator of salvation ; for, in the words you just 
quoted, St. Paul immediately adds : ‘ Who gave himself a 
redemption for all.’ ” 

“ One Mediator of Salvation ! Certainly you must call 
the angels and saints mediators, as long as you ask them to 
pray for you ; or in other \^ords, to mediate for you.” 

“Yes, grandfather; we ask them to pray for us; and, 
therefore, they are not mediators of salvation, but of inter- 
cession. In asking the saints and angels to pray for us, we 
no more transgress against belief in one mediator than did 
St. Paul himself, when, in his epistles, he entreated the 
faithful to pray for him. In his Epistle to the Romans, 
XV. 30, he begs his brethren, through our Lord Jesus Christ, 
and by the charity of the Holy Ghost, to assist him by their 
prayers to God, that he might be delivered from the unbe- 
lievers that w’^ere in Judea, and that the oblation of his ser- 
vices might be acceptable in Jerusalem to the saints. Here, 
grandfather and grandmother, he makes a clear and plain 
distinction between the mediation of salvation, and the 
mediation of intercession. They, the mediators of interces- 
sion, were to offer up their prayers for him, that through 
Jesus Christ, thp mediator of salvation, they might obtain 
that for which they prayed. To the Ephesians, vi. 17, 19, 
he begs that, when offering up their supplications for the 
saints, they would pray for him, that speech might be given 
him, that he might open his mouth with confidence, to 
make known the mystery of the Gospel. Again, in the last 
chapters of his First Epistle to the Thessalonians and that to 
the Hebrews, we find him, after' instructing them in many 
things, begging their prayers.” 


844 


AGNES ; OR 


“ But, Becky, child, these were yet living, and it was 
not, therefore, like praying to them after death.” 

“ Yes, grandmother, they were yet living ; but, if it be 
profitable to beg the prayers of those in the flesh, who are 
not without sin, — ‘ for the' just man falls seven times,’ and no 
one living can say he sins not, — how much more so to 
beg the prayers of the angels and saints in heaven, who 
are free from every stain, as nothing in the least defiled can 
enter these blest abodes ? Can they forget their brethren 
on earth? No; St. Paul assures us that charity never 
faileth ; and now, confirmed in glory, enjoying the presence 
of Divine Majesty, how much greater must be their influ- 
ence on our behalf?” 

“ It may be greater, child, and their charity may be the 
same, or even increased ; but does it not argue a diffidence 
in the mercy of God to go to them, instead of going direct 
to the fountain-head ?” 

“ No, grandfather ; no more than it did in St. Paul’s 
asking his brethren to pray for lilm. And to prove that 
their prayers may be more acceptable to God, in our behalf, 
than our own, we have only to turn to Job, xlii. 7, 8. 
Here our Lord, speaking to Eliphaz, says : ‘ My wrath is 
kindled against thee, and against thy two friends, because 
you have not spoken the thing that is right before me, as 
my servant Job hath. Take unto you, therefore, seven oxen 
and seven rams, and go to my servant Job, and offer for 
yourselves a holocaust ; and my servant Job shall pray for 
you ; his face I will accept, that folly be not imputed to you ; 
for you have not spoken right things before me, as my ser- 
vant Job hath.’ The next verse tells us that Eliphaz, 
Baldad, and Sophar, did as the Lord commanded, and that 
the Lord accepted the face of Job, showing very plainly 
that while he accepted the prayers of Job in their behalf, 


TIEAVS OF CATHOLICITY. 


345 


and was reconciled to them, he would not have accepted 
theirs.” 

“ But, child, as your grandmother remarked. Job was 
living when they went to him. Now, what proof have we 
that the angels and saints know any thing of our affairs, or 
can hear the prayers we send up to them ?” 

“The words of Christ himself. Luke, xv. 10 : ‘I say 
to you, there shall be joy before the angels of God upon 
one sinner doing penance.’ ^ Now, if the angels and saints 
rejoice over a sinner’s conversion, does it not prove that 
they in heaven know of the sinner’s conversion here on 
earth ?” 

Grandfather and grandmother’s eyes were fixed upon 
her, but they did not speak; silently they were revolving 
the question in their'minds. Minute after minute passed, 
at length grandfather exclaimed : ^ 

“ Child ! is not this supposing the angels and saints hear 
and know all the prayers addressed to them, giving to them 
two of the divine' attributes — universal knowledge, and uni- 
versal presence ?” 

“ By no means, grandfather ; we neither believe the 
angels and saints to be everywhere, nor yet, to have a 
knowledge of all things ; but that they do hear our prayers, 
Scripture assures us. In the Apocalypse ; or, as it is named 
in your Bible — Bevelation, v. 8, we read that ‘The four 
living creatures, and the four-and-twenty ancients fell down 
before the Lamb, having, every one of them, harps and 
golden vials full of odors, which are the prayers of the 
saints.’ Again, in chap, viii., 3, 4 : ‘ And another angel came, 
and stood before the altar, having a golden censor: and 
there was given to him much incense, that he should ofier 
of the prayers of all saints upon the golden altar, which is 
before the throne of God. xVnd the smoke of the incense of 
15* 


346 


AGNES ; OR, 


the prayers of the saints ascended up before God, from the 
hand of the angel.’ Now, how the saints hear or know the 
prayers addressed to them, we cannot with certainty tell • 
that they o?o, we have here positive proof. But their hear 
ing them affords no cause to believe that they must neces- 
sarily be in every place. They have not to come down 
from heaven to us ; but our prayers go up to them : ‘ The 

prayer of him that humbleth himself, shall pierce the 
clouds. Shall I not, grandfather and grandmother, read 
a little what Challoner says, treating- on this subject ; he 
makes it so much plainer than I possibly can?” 

“Yes, child; and afterwards mother and I will thorough- 
ly read him.” Becky opened at p. 224, and read : 

“ ‘ If you ask me how they can know our prayers Avithout 
being everywhere, and knowing all things ? I answer that 
there are many ways by which they know them. 1st. The 
angels may know them by being amongst us in quality of 
our guardians ; and the saints may know them by the 
angels, Avhose conversation they enjoy. 2d. Both angels 
and saints may see them and know them in God, whom 
they continually see and enjoy ; or, by revelation from God, 
as in God they see the repentance of sinners, Luke, xv. 10. 
For they that see God face to face, by the light of glory, 
discern his divine attributes, and in them innumerable 
secrets impenetrable to nature. And therefore, though they 
themselves are not everywhere ; yet, by contemplating Him 
that sees and knows all things, they have a vast extent of 
knowledge of things that pass here beloAv. ‘ In thy light 
shall Ave see light,’ says the royal prophet. Psalm xxxv, 
(alias xxxvi., 9.) And ‘ Ave shall be like to Him,’ says St. 
John, 1 John, hi. 2 ; ‘ for we shall see Him as He is.’ ‘ Now 
we see,’ says St. Paul, 1 Corinthians, xiii. 12, ‘ through a 

* Ecclesiastus, xxxv., 22. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


347 


glass darkly, but then face to face : now I know in part ; 
but then shall I know even as I am known:’ 3d. Both 
angels and saints may know our petitions addressed to them, 
by the ordinary way by which spirits speak to one another, 
and hear one another ; and that is, by directing our thoughts 
to them, with a desire of opening our minds to them ; for, 
we can no otherwise understand or explain the speech and 
conversation of spirits who, having neither tongues nor ears, 
must converse together by the directing of their thoughts to 
one another. Now, this kind of conversation, by the thoughts, 
may extend to ever so great a distance, as being independent 
of sound and all other corporal qualities, and, consequently, 
independent of distance.’ And thus the Catholic carries out 
the belief he subscribes to in the Creed, Communion of 
Saints. The Church militant communicates with the 
Church triumphant, and also with the Church suffering; I 
mean, grandfather and grandmother, that this communion 
of saints is not confined alone to heaven and. earth, but ex- 
tends to the middle state, called Purgatory. A s we beg the 
angels and saints to assist us by their prayers, so we try, by 
our prayers, to help Qur brethren detained in that prison, 
from which our blessed Saviour assures us they cannot be 
released till the last farthing be paid.” 

“Praying for the dead!” exclaimed grandfather, “im- 
plies a third state, a heaven, a hell, and a state between 
these two ; however, before we hear the scriptural proof for 
this third state, we want to know what part of Scripture 
supports the belief that prayers can be of any possible 
avail to one after death.” 

“Grandfather, in 2 Machabees, xii., we see that when 
the pious general, Judas Machabeus, had gained divers vic- 
tories over the enemies of his religion, he sent ten thousand 
drachms to Jerusalem, to have sacrifices offered up for those 


348 


AGI^ES; OR, 


of his soldiers who had fallen jn battle, it being ‘ a holy and 
wholesome thought to pra}\for the dead, that they may he 
loosed from their sins.’ And, although Protestants, con- 
trary to Catholics, do not receive as canonical scripture the 
books of Machabees, still, as authentic records of the peo- 
ple of God, they have ever venerated and respected them. 
Here then we see, that prayers and sacrifices for the dead 
are not of modern origin, as some of our enemies have 
alleged; that even before Christianity, the Jews offered them 
up ; and to this day they continue the practice.” 

“ To this day, child V* 

“ Yes, grandfather ; ask any Jew, and he will tell you the ♦ 
same. How, as our blessed Saviour bitterly reproached 
the Scribes and Pharisees for the evils and corruptions they 
had brought into religion, if this had been one of them 
Would he not have mentioned it ? In the severest language 
he reprobated their pride and hard-heartedness, their 
worldly-miudedness, and always striving to be in the first 
place. Read Matthew xxiii., and reflect upon the woes 
pronounced upon them, and for what. Turn to Mark xi., 
and John ii., where he casts the buyers and sellers out of 
the temple ; also, Mark xii., and Luke xi., xii., and xx., 
and in all that he reproaches them with, for all he pro- 
nounces woes upon them, not one word is said against this 
practice of praying for the dead. If it had been one of 
the doctrines and commandments of men, making void the 
commandments of God, would he have been silent on the 
subject? Would fhe valiant and pious general, Judas Ma- 
chabeus, so strict an observer of the law of God, so zealous 
in reclaiming the holy places from the hands pf their ene- 
mies, and cleansing them from their lieathenish abomina- 
tions, so beloved by the Lord, and assisted by him in all his 
battles, would he have oractised praying for the dead and 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


349 


offering up sacrifices for them, if it had been against the law 
of God ; or, if it had not been wliat the inspired writer 
says of it, ‘ A holy and wholesome thought to pray for the 
dead, that they may be loosed from their sins.’ And it has 
been the perpetual practice of the Church of God from the 
very beginning. Tertullian lived about a hundred years 
after the apostles. In one of his works, speaking of the 
duty of a Christian widow, he affirms that she should pray 
for the soul of her husband, and beg refreshment for him. 
St. Chrysostom, the light of the Eastern Church, who lived 
in the age but one following, writing on this subject, says : 

. ‘ It was not without good reason, ordained hy the apostles, 
that mention should be made of the dead in the tremendous 
mysteries, because they knew well that these would receive 
great benefit from it.’ St. Augustin expressly declares? 
‘ through the prayers and sacrifices of the Church and 
alms-deeds, God deals ipore mercifully with the departed 
than their sins deserve.’^ And in the same way, grand- 
father and grandmother, from age to age, I could quote the 
Fathers proving that prayers and sacrifice for the dead have 
ever been offered up in the Catholic Church.” 

It was some time before grandfather spoke. Becky was 
about to continue her remarks, but he impressively raised 
his hand to enjoin silence. Slowly rising, he walked up and 
down the room. She knew a fierce struggle was going 
on in his heart ; old prejudices had to be battled with ; and, 
with her head bowed on her palms, she prayed that truth 
might triumph over them. That evening had she spoken 
of the invocation of saints ; and, now, directing her prayers 
to her who is “ Queen of angels,” and ‘‘ Queen of all saints,” 
she earnestly entreated her intercession for her grandparents’ 


* “Extracts from tlis Fathers,” taken from Milner, p. 267. 


50 


AGNES ; OB, 


behalf. Shfe felt of herself, a poor, simple girl, she could 
do nothing to enlighten them, and that, unless heaven blessed 
her words they would be, as marks left in the sand, washed 
away with the first wave. 

“ Becky, child,” said grandfather, at length, resuming his 
seat, “ mother and I have a confused idea of what is meant 
by the word ‘ purgatory but we want you clearly to state to 
us the Catholic’s belief concerning it.” 

“ Grandfather, purgatory is a middle state, where souls, 
departing this life with the guilt and eternal punishment of 
their sins remitted, but with yet a temporal punishment 
remaining due, or not wholly freed from small defects, such' 
as venial sins, are purified before they are received into 
heaven, where nothing defiled can enter.” 

“The guilt and eternal punishment remitted, and the 
temporal still remaining due?” 

“ Yes, grandfather ; we have many instances in holy writ 
where God has remitted the guilt of sin and the eternal pun- 
ishment due to it, but still inflicted a temporal punishment 
on the repentant sinner. We see in 2 Kings, xii. 14, 
when David had grievously sinned, upon his sincere repent- 
ance, the Lord put away his sin, that is, remitted the guilt 
and eternal punishment due to it ; but by His prophet. He 
told that, nevertheless, his child should die — nevertheless, 
the temporal punishment he should suffer in the death of 
his child. But the one which comes home to our hearts 
‘ with the greatest force — the one which every one must suf- 
fer, which no one coming into the world can escape, I will 
refer to- now, grandfather and grandmother, I mean Death. 
Can one look on his icy signet without being deeply im- 
pressed with the truth of the Catholic doctrine on this 
point ? Adam sinned, he repented ; the eternal punish- 
ment due to his sin was remitted ; but the sentence of 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


351 


death was pronounced upon him, and all his posterity. Man 
still suffers this temporal punishment, and so long as time 
shall continue, so long shall he endure it ; his body must 
return to the dust whence it was taken. Oh, grandfath^ 
and grandmother, have you ever gazed upon the dying 
Avithout feeling that, although the blood of the Saviour 
opened heaven to man, still he was suffering for Adam’s 
sins ?” 

“ No, child, never. Never have I watched the faintly 
heaving chest and failing breath, but the thought has inva- 
riably occurred to me.” 

“ And as long as Adam was forgiven, what could this be 
but, as the Catholic Church teaches, a temporal punish- 
ment due to his sin, after its guilt and eternal punishment 
had been remitted.” 

An agony swept over the features of her grandparents, 
her question they did not heed; the mention of the faintly 
heaving chest and failing breath had brought to their minds 
the early loss of household treasures. Years had passed, 
the world had forgotten them, but in the hearts of their 
parents their memory was cherished still. Grandmother 
attempted to speak, but tears choked her utterance. Large 
drops stood on grandfather’s brows ; wiping them away, in 
a tone forced to calmness, he remarked : 

“ Mother, the Lord gave them to us, and in his own good 
time he took them ; blessed be his holy name.” 

A low, responsive “ Amen” came from grandmother’, 
lips, but the smothered sobs showed how undying is the 
love and tenderness of a mother. 

“ But grandfather and grandmother,” said Becky, anx- 
ious to turn the current of their thoughts from past griefs 
and sorrows, “ you wished me to tell you the scriptural 
proof for this middle state ?” 


852 


AGNES ; OE, 


“ Yes, child, yes !” exclaimed grandfather, again fixing 
his eyes upon her. * 

“ Grandfather, in Romans, ii. 6., St. Paul tells us, that 
‘t3od will render to every man according to his works,’ that 
is, those who have sinned most shall be punished most, 
those who have sinned less shall be punished less. Here 
we have the words of 'the Apostle, and can we doubt the 
truth of them ? Can we for a moment' suppose that one 
guilty of a few small faults, and one who has outraged 
every law of God and man, will receive alike the same pun- 
ishment ? Will one who has stolen a few pennies and one 
who has stolen an hundred pounds ; one who, in a momen- 
tary fit of passion, has given his neighbor a light blow, and 
one who has coolly and deliberately murdered him, be 
ranked in the same class as offenders ? No, the law of man 
would very quickly distinguish between them, and punish 
accordingly ; and will the law of God be less just ? Some 
may say that these smaller sins hinder not the soul from 
immediately going to her rest, but Scripture solemnly de- 
clares that nothing defiled can enter heaven. St. Paul, 1 
Corinthians, iii., after telling us that Christ is the founda- 
tion of our building, the foundation of our hope, adds that 
‘ every man’s work shall be made manifest, for the day of 
the Lord shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire, 
that the fire shall try every man’s work, what sort it is.’ If 
any man’s work abides which he hath built thereon, he shall 
receive a reward. If any man’s work burns, he shall suffer 
loss ; but he himself shall be saved, yet so as by fire. If 
there was no other testimony in Scripture supporting the 
belief of a middle state, or purgatory, this alone would be 
most convincing proof of its existence. Having built on a 
firm foundation, Christ and his holy doctrine, and in a state 
of grace, although with some imperfections, he shall be 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


353 


saved yet so as by fire. Surely, this cannot be the fire of 
hell, for out of hell there is no redemption, out of hell one 
cannot be saved. But another proof we see in 1 Peter, 
iii. 18, 19, 20, where we are told that Christ ‘ being put tb 
death, indeed, in the flesh, but brought to life by the spirit, 
went and preached to those spirits who were in prison : 
Who in time past had been incredulous when they waited 
for the patience of God in the days of Noah, when the ark 
was a building.’ Could this have been heaven ? No ; 
heaven is no prison. Could it have been hell ? No { Christ 
would not descend to the damned, for his presence could 
bring them no comfort ; his preaching could not retieve 
their pain, and vain to them was the death and passion of 
the Man-God. Already had sentence been pronounced 
upon them — already had almighty justice rendered to them 
according to their works. Then where was it, if it was 
neither to heaven nor to hell ? Clearly to this middle state, 
to purgatory, to the prison whence ‘ none can be released 
till the last farthing be paid.’ ” 

“Becky,” said grandmother, in her quiet, gentle way, 
“there is a passage,.! think it is the second or third verse 
of the eleventh chapter of Ecclesiastes, which is frequently 
quoted against this belief of purgatory. Father and I 
would like to hear Tiow the Catholics answer it.” 

“ What is it, grandmother ?” 

“ It is, ‘ If the tree fall towards the south, or towards the 
north, in the place where the tree falleth there it shall lie.’ ” 

“Grandmother, supposing this to refer to the soul after 
death, ‘ it only proves what no Catholic denies, viz. : that 
when once a soul is come to the south. or to the north, that 
is, to heaven or hell, its state is unchanged.* But it in 


* Challoner, p. 155. 


354 


AGNES ; OE, 


no way disproves the existence of purgatory. When the 
just man falls seven times,’ when ‘ we must give an account 
for every idle word when some are to he saved, ‘ yet so' 
as by fire,’ how can we, believing the Bible, doubt the ex- 
istence of a middle, state ? ‘ Nothing defiled can enter 

heaven will, then, the just man who falls seven times be 
condemned to hell? For every idle word will we be 
eternally punished ? No ; God will render to every man 
according to his works ; by his Apostle he hath assured us 
that those whb build on a sure foundation, although their 
works suffer loss, although their wood, hay, and stubble be 
burned, still they shall be saved, yet so as by fire. The fire 
having purged away all defilement, all that can defile, they 
shall be received into the new Jerusalem, into the eternal 
glory of the blest ; they shall be saved.” 

The clock on the mantle struck twelve. “ Child,” ex- 
claimed grandfather, “ we have kept you too long. To- 
morrow mother and I will read over Challoner on this sub- 
ject ; but go now. It is so still that I think the family 
must be all in bed.” 

“No, grandfather, they are not.” She smiled as she 
rose, kissed them, and bade them “good-night.” 

No, the family had not retired. The Thirty-Day Prayer 
finished, again had it been commenced, and they were 
waiting for her to join them. It was the penitential time 
of Lent, and besides the regular evening devotions there 
was the Rosary to say, and t#e Penitential Psalms to read. 
As she entered the sitting-room her uncle closed the 
volume he had been poring over, her aunt and cousin laid 
aside their sewing, and with grateful, fervent hearts all 
knelt in prayer. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


356 


CHAPTER XX. 

Again had Agnes Hilton watched at the bedside of her 
sick friend. Edith had passed a miserable night, and she 
left her not till the afternoon of the next day. Returned 
home she hastened to her room, seated herself before her 
desk, drew out her manuscript and turned to the sixth 
chapter. 

“ Summer, with its gay sunshine, its many-toned voices of 
joy and promise, had passed away, and under a spread of 
russet-brown the fields had sunk to sleep, not to be awak- 
ened till another spring. The trees, stripped of their 
‘graceful foliage, with strong outstretched arms, stood ready 
to battle with the howling blasts of winter. The sky 
looked sorrowful and sad, as if mourning for the bright days ; 
and a few light clouds flitted swiftly over it, from the West 
to the east, as if hurrying with all their might to join a 
cavalry of clouds just above the eastern horizon. A cold, 
bleak light, which seemed a very mockery of the bright sun- 
shine, illumined the scene, and as little Joe, seated on a rising 
eminence, glanced down into the desolate wood, it seemed 
all the sad and sorrowful things he had ever heard were 
being put to music, and played by the spirits of the wind : 
first came up a low sweeping dirge, that reminded him of 
the swelling sound of the waves that met the dying ears 
of Jemmy Brien when the kind-hearted sailors carried him 


S56 


AGNES ; OE, 


on deck that before the film of death came over his eyes 
he might see once more the glorious sky. Then struck in 
a few wild, tremulous notes, like the cry of the waylaid 
traveller, begging for his life on the dark and lonely moor 
then followed a wailing shriek that brought to mind the 
despairing cry of the man who bartered his soul for gold — 
the demon-bought man — as the awful hour of payment 
drew nigh. With a shudder he turned aside his head, hut 
the shriek died away, a trembling rustle of leaves followed, 
and all was still. With a grave thoughtful face he listened, 
another whirl of leaves, and again the symphony began — 
but now, instead of swelling waves, lonely cries and 
fearful shrieks, it came so soft, so low, that although sor- 
rowful still, it spoke peace and hope to his trembling heart. 
Another change, and it was carried aloft in powerful ca- 
dences, hope, sorrow, and supplication blending their voices 
in it. A reverential awe came over him, he had never 
heard the funeral anthems of the Church, but he had often 
listened to his father speaking of them, and now it seemed 
way down in the naked woods the wind-spirits were inton-' 
ing a grand miserere for the dying year. ■ Rising, he bared 
his head and reverentially folded his hands; all the great 
events of his young life crowded fast upon him — his 
parents’ sickness and death. Father John and the Connors’ 

kindness to him, Ifis going to A the summer previous, 

and his first confession. Joy and sorrow filled his heart ; 
bowing down, he threw his arms round Douce’s neck, and 
wept with uncontrollable emotion. He was still weeping 
when Bernard came up, and, laying his hand on his shoul- 
der, in an excited voice exclaimed, 

“ ‘ So you’ve heard the news. Arn’t it a shame, a blush- 
ing shame?” lie did not know to what Bernard referred, 
and, of course, did not know what the blushing shame was, 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


■ 357 


but it so little interested him to learn that he raised not 
his head from the neck of his shaggy friend. 

“ ‘ Gh, Joe ! Joe !’ exclaimed Fanny, as she and Hughy 
joined them, “ did you know that you are to go away from 
here, away from us Now he raised his head, and looked 
wildly up. ‘ Go ; where am I to go V he asked. 

‘ Way off with that hateful Mr. Reed’s brother, to-day 
or to-morroAv. He has been talking to father and mother, 
and telling them it’s wrong for them to keep you here, 
because we are bringing you up in idleness, there are-^o 
many of us, and we pet you so much that you aauII be 
spoiled, and all the people are talking about it, and so he 
says he thinks it’s best for you to go off to his brother’s 
family, that there you’ll be well treated, and your religion 
shan’t be touched.’ 

“ She ■ told Ml this in an excited, breathless manner, and 
her breath exhausted, she hid her face in her apron and 
sobbed. 

“Joe rubbed his head like one bewildered, and said: 

“ ‘Go — go — no, it can’t be. You must be mistaken.’ 

“ ‘ No, we arn’t,’ replied Bernard in a grave, thoughtful 
voice, ‘ I only wish Ave were. Mother says she has known 
it for a fortnight, and that’s why she made your coat before 
she made any of ours.’ 

“■SorroAvfiilly the children repaired to the house. Mrs. 
Connor was sitting by the Avindow Avith the sAveetbrier 
before it, her hands Avere folded listlessly on her lap, and 
her knitting Avas lying all unheeded on the floor beside 
her, while her eyes looked as if she had ' been Aveeping. 
Mr. Connor’s chair was drawn up to one end of the 
great kitchen table, and Mr. Reed with judicial gravity 
was seated at the other. He Avas a small Aviry man with a 
very wrinkled forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and indeed, so 


858 


AGNES ; OR, 


many wrinkles gathered round his eyes, nostrils, and thin 
lips that it seemed wrinkles formed the ground-work of 
his face. A small blue eye, gleaming with real or assumed 
kindness and a great deal of calculation, peered out from 
a thick bushy eyebrow, and a lank mass of dry, sandy hair, 
carefully smoothed down, lay on. each temple. 

“ He and Mr. and Mrs. Connor were engaged in conversa- 
tion when the children came in. Mrs. Connor was saying : 

“ ‘ I don’t know, Mr. Reed, whether we are doing right or 
wrong in letting Joe go ; but one thing is certain, it’s but 
little comfort James or I will ever take if wrong comes out 
of it to him. Didn’t we promise his mother, and she 
dying, that we’d be ever faithful to her child V 

“ ‘ I know it, Mrs. Connor,’ he replied, in a smooth, 
soft manner, ‘ you’d do any thing for the boy’s good, but 
jist consider it; as I said afore, aint it more for his good to 
be where he’ll learn to think for hisself, and be made to do 
suthing, and grow up kind of independent-like, and as if 
his father and motlier dying when he was young wasn’t no 
reason for his always a hanging on to other folks’ skirts, 
and not knowing what his own limbs was made for.’ 

“Every word of this stung little Joe to the quick, and 
brought a burning blush to his cheek. . 

“ ‘ I tell you what it is,’ continued his tormentor, ‘ his 
father ’pointed me guardeen as well as Mr. Conner there ; 
and I, for one, vote that he go to Brother Crushford’s.’ 

“ A frown contracted Mrs. Connor’s brow ; she was about 
to speak, when Mr. Reed hastily broke in. 

“ ‘ His religion shan’t be touched.’ He was deep-sighted 
enough to know this would have a great effect on the Con- 
nors. ‘ I knowed Mr. Harny,’ he went on to say in a most 
patronizing manner, ‘ and I never knowed abetter Christian 
than he was. Brother Crushford worked for me the year 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICmr. 


359 


afore he was married, and he know’d him, too, and he’ll 
think a great deal of his boy, now that he’s gone.’ 

‘ Well he may ! well he may !’ exclaimed Mr. Connor, 
laying his arm heavily on the table, ‘ if he only makes half 
as good a man as his father, it will go hard with him but 
every one will yet respect him for his own sake. And he’ll 
have, besides, such a good chance for winter schooling.’ 

“ ‘ He’d have that here,’ said Mrs. Connor ; ‘ every one of 
them, from Maurice down to Hughy, went to school last win- 
ter. Joe didn’t stay out a day, and they said he studied the 
hardest and learned the most of any child in school. Mr. 
Lathrop, the schoolmaster, thought every thing of him, and 
many’s the time he told James and I that nobody could 
look into his sorrowful face without feeling kindly to him ; 
and true for him, isn’t it himself that’s got his own mother’s 
large, pitiful black eyes.’ She stooped, and dashing away 
a tear, took up her knitting, and went to picking up the 
stitches with all haste. 

“ After a little silence, Mr. Reed said : 

“ ‘And so it’s agreed he is to go ?’ 

“ ‘ Well, yes ;’ replied Mr. Connor. ‘ I suppose it’s all for 
the best.’ The latter part of his answer was directed to his 
wife. 

“ ‘ I can’t say, James, whether it’s right or wrong we are 
doing in letting him go ; but, Mr. Reed, what is all that 

for r 

“ He had drawn from his coat-pocket a little square ink- 
stand, a pretty well used-up quill-pen, and a sheet of fools- 
cap, partly written over. 

“ ‘ You see,’ he observed, turning to Mr. Connor, with a 
patient, forbearing smile, as if Mrs. Connor, being a woman, 
her ignorance of such matters was quite excusable, but, at 
the same time, quite too profound for him to attempt to en- 


360 


AGJTES; OR, 


lighten, ‘ it’s the way we gaardeens do when we bind out a 
boy.’ 

“ ‘ Man alive,’ exclaimed Mr. Connor, starting up, ‘ what 
do you mean ? Who’s been talking of binding Joe out ?’ 

“ ‘ Why, when Moses was out last week didn’t you both 
talk it all over V 

“ ‘ We talked it over, but sure I didn’t agree to it. I tell 
you now, v/hat I then told him. If Joe had no friends to 
look -after him, binding him out to some honest farmer 
might be a very excellent thing for him ; it would insure 
him a home, where he could grow up with steady, indus- 
trious habits. But Joe is differently situated ; his father 
left him a good farm, that, rented. Brings him quite a little 
income, sufficient plainly and decently to clothe him, and 
pay any little expense arising from sickness.’ 

‘ But, his board and waiting on, at such times, Mr. Con- 
nor ?’ 

“ ‘ His board and waiting on could be very easily paid.’ 

“ ‘ How T 

^ ‘ Why by the wages he’d earn when well. You don’t 
suppose he’s going to be siok all the time ?’ 

“ ‘ No, not exactly that ; but we being his guardeens, 
must make some calculations for these ere things. He looks 
well enough now, but he is too much like his mother to be 
overly strong. If he was bound out to Brother Crushford, 
he would get two good hum-made suits a year, three 
months’ schooling every winter ; and, if he happened to get 
sick, be taken care of till he’d be well agin ; and then, when 
he’d be twenty-one, he’d have a hundred dollars clear profit. 
The rent of his farm could be laid up for him, and added to 
the hundred dollars, would make, if he wanted to lay it out 
so, a handsome payment on another farm. I tell you what, 
Mr. Connor, you’d better, when Brother Crushford comes, 


^^EWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


361 


sign this ere article, it will be jest the making of Joe’s 
fortin.’ 

“‘Mr.. Reed, I admit it might be to his advantage, but 
still I can’t do it.’ 

“ ‘ Can’t do it !’ repeated Mr. Reed, in surprise. ‘ As long 
as you owm it might be to his advantage, why can’t you ?’ 

“ ‘ Because I promised his father he should always have a 
home with nte, and,’ he had refrained from bringing forth 
his greatest and most important objection, but now he boldly 
expressed it, ‘ his not being a Catholic, it would never do to 
bind Joe to him.’ 

“ ‘But, although Moses goes to meeting every Sunday, 
he don’t belong to no church, so that would make no odds 
to him.’ 

“ ‘It might make, no difference to him, but it would make 
all difference to Joe. While taking care of his body, I 
.must not forget his soul.’ Mr. Reed smiled derisively, 
and seemed about to make some remark, when Mr. Connor 
again observed : 

“ ‘ I should have mentioned this first, but I thought I 
could act just as well without intruding on you any scruple, 
that, believing different from me, you cannot feel. Nothing 
worried his parents in their death-sickness — God rest their 
souls ! — s^ much as the fear that Joe would grow up forgetful 
of his religion. I gave them my promise, and so did Ellen, 
that we would ever have a particular care over him, and 
see that he learned his Catechism well and frequented the 
sacramentg, and so, with God’s help, we will. But, sup- 
posing I had made no such promise, still, as a Catholic, I 
would not bind the child of Catholic parents to one who was 
not himself a Catholic. Joe can go to Mr. Crushford, and 
stay at so much per month, for six, seven, or eight months, 
or a year ; at Easter he must be allowed to come home for 
16 


362 


AGNES ; OK, 


a few days. Then Bernard and Fanny are to make their 
first Communion, and Joe is to make his at the same time.’ 

“ ‘ Well, whether he was bound to him or not, Moses 
would not object to that.’ 

“ Without heeding the remark, Mr. Connor continued : 
‘ Every morning he must have time to say his morning 
prayers, and as to night prayers, I know Joe will not lay 
his side to a bed before saying them.’ 

“ All this very little interested Mr. Reed, and he hastened 
to other matters. ‘ I heard yon talking to Moses about his 
wages, but I forgot what he said about it.’ 

“ ‘ He agreed to pay him four dollars a month for the 
fall months; in the winter he is to go to school for three 
months, and work night and morning and one day in each 
week for his board ; after school, when the spring work 
commences, he is again to have the four dollars per month.’ 

“ ‘ But his schooling ?’ 

“ ‘ That is to come out of his wages.’ Mr. Reed said no 
more. On these terms it was that Joe was to go to the 
Crushfords. Poor Joe ! That night, kneeling down to his 
prayers, he felt more than ever alone — all alone in the 
world — and, from a heavy heart, the prayer of orphanage 
went up‘. . It was nearly noon the next day when Mr. 
Crushford came for him. All the morning Mps. Connor 
had been brushing his clothes, putting a stitch here and a 
stitch there; and when they were thoroughly mended, 
carefully packing them away in his father’s old leather 
trunk. Douce was to go too. This had been particularly 
insisted on by Mrs. Connor, and, at length, reluctantly 
agreed to by Mr. Crushford, when he was there the week 
before.’ 

“ ‘ Poor child !’ she said, ‘ it’s but little kindness one 
could have that would wish to separate him from his dog.’ 


VIEWS OF CATIIOLICITT. 


363 


“ After a dinner, wliich he was scarcely able to taste, and 
one more visit to the loved graves, his trnnh was handed 
into the heavy lumber wagon, and with much weeping and 
wailing on the part of the children, and many fervent 
prayers for his welfare — and tears too, for the truth must be 
told, on the part of the parents — little Joe and his dog 
started out into the world. 

“ Mr. Crushford was a silent, uncommunicative person ; he 
had a blank, expressionless face, which was hard to make 
out. Little Joe studied it very closely without being able to 
come to any conclusion. Although not over thirty years 
of age, his hair was of that peculiar hue it was impossible 
to tell, at first glance, whether it was the steel shade of age 
or the fiaxen tint of youth ; his complexion was an unre- 
lievable sallow, features large and regular, so regular that, 
joined with his small, greenish-gray eyes and faded com- 
plexion, they gave to his countenance an expression of 
great dullness. Recollecting the oft-made assertion, that 
dull people are always good-natured, little Joe hoped he 
would be easy to please. But, might not his very stolidity- 
make him- insensible to the instincts of kindness? Might 
it not deaden him to every generous impulsive feeling? 
Such countenances we meet every day — meet them without 
being able, like little Joe, to read what kind of a heart the 
phlegmatic exterior may cover, whether prosy and good- 
natured — the usually asserted concomitants of dullness — or 
selfish, exacting, and tyrannical. He instinctively f^lt he 
should not like him. But his wife, she might be very dif- 
ferent, and feel for the orphan placed under their charge. 
He would hope for the best; he would not despair. Dis- 
missing his doubts and fears, he looked about him. The 
sun burst from a black mass of clouds, and shed a pale, 
sickly light over the desolate scenery. The bare trees by 


364 


AGNES ; OK, 


the road side creaked in the fall wind, and cast fitful 
shadows over their Avay ; the hills looked lonely and sad ; 
lie could hardly persuade himself they were the same hills 

he saw when going to A , the summer previous, then 

covered with fast ripening grain, with a blue sky above, 
and birds and sunshine and waving trees around. Now 
the bright sunshine and birds were gone, and stripped and 
bare they stretched on before him, lone and desolate, the 
■wailing of the winds and the creaking of the naked trees 
making more marked the silence that wrapped them around. 

“ ‘Are we to climb that hill yonder V he asked, pointing 
to one in the distance, up which the road they were on 
seemed to lead.’ 

“‘Yes.’ 

“ ‘ How far is it to the top ?’ 

“ ‘ Don’t know — never measured it;’ was answered in a 
tone that told he considered it very impertinent for little 
boys to ask questions. 

“Joe thought of a hundred, and would like to ask, but 
abashed by Mr. Crushford’s freezing manner, he only looked, 
and silently wondered what was the name of the broad 
valley with the creek running with a musical, laughing 
ripple through it — the only joyous sound he heard that 
day — and if the hill on the left was not the hill where 
Little Fish, the Indian, stabbed the first white settler of the 
place ; and if the woods back of the hill were not the very 
woods in which, years before, a little girl had been lost, 
and when the few inhabitants^ gathered together, and went 
out in scouting parties to find her, one brought back a part 
of her dress, another a little shoe, and another, oh ! sadder 
still, a lock of her golden hair; proving the sorrowful fact, 
that the household pet, the forest flower, had fallen a prey 
to the wild beasts. Joe had heard it was somewhere in the 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITT. " 


S65 


direction of these hills, and it might be in that dark frown- 
ing woods rising just above the cedar- crowned hills, and 
again it might possibly be in the grand sweeping forest on 
his right. But a log would have answered questions as 
soon as Mr. Crushford; so silent they rode on. Douce 
jogged just ahead of the horses as if their especial guide 
he was good-naturedly showing them the way. Every 
little while, feeling very lonesome, Joe would give a loud 
whistle, when he would come bounding up to the side of 
the wagon, and, with a quick, sharp bark, express his satis- 
faction in being allowed to follow the fortunes of his young 
master. 

“It was ' nearly dark when they drove up to the gate 
before a small unpainted house. Springing lightly from 
the wagon, he opened the gate, and, as the team was 
passing through, found time to give Douce a silent 
caress. 

“ ‘ You may go into the house,’ said Mr. Crushford ; then, 
suddenly changing his mind, he called him back. ‘ Come 
along to the barn,’ he said, ‘ and help me put out the horses, 
so the next time you can do it yourself.’ Joe cheerfully 
obeyed him. Soon they were ‘ put out ;’ and Mr. Crush- 
ford, telling him he might drive the cows into the yard, and 
feed the pigs in the pen, went up to the house for the milk 
pails. It was' some time before he returned ; giving Joe a 
pail, he pointed out to him the cows he was to milk. With 
a determination to win from his immovable face an approv- 
ing smile, he seated himself, and milked away with all his 
might. As Mr. Crushford rose from his fourth cow, Joe 
was from his third. 

“ ‘ Seeing you can milk as fast as that,’ said Mr. Crush- 
ford, without relaxing a muscle of his face, ‘ you can go and 
milk old brindle, yonder.’ 


366 


AGNES ; OR, 


He stood by while Joe, with aching wrists, milked the 
last cow in the yard. 

“ With a heavy pail hanging from each arm, he followed 
Mr. Crushford into the house. Mrs. Crushford was busy 
preparing the evening meal ; but, she paused in her occupa- 
tion before the large, old-fashioned fireplace, and leisurely 
surveyed him from head to foot; then, turning to Mr. 
Crushford, in an indifferent manner, she observed : 

“ ‘ And so that’s him.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ he briefly replied, walking into the buttery and 
straining the milk. 

“ With a decided curl of the upper lip, she resumed her 
work. Joe’s hopes of finding in her a kind, indulgent mis- 
tress, faded away. She was a large bony woman, with a 
sour morose countenance ; a habitual frown contracted her 
brows, and brought her dark heavy eyebrows together ; her 
eyes were blue, and looked as if they might have once been 
pretty ; but, somehow, they had got frozen, and were ready 
now to freeze any thing upon which their glance might rest ; 
her mouth was large, and expressed a remorseless and ex- 
acting disposition. Letting his eyes wander from her, he 
glanced round the room. It was a large kitchen, the doors 
and wainscoting painted a light blue, aneV the walls and 
ceiling whitewashed, gave a lightsome look to the room. A 
tall clock, like his father and mother’s, stood between the 
two front windows ; on one side of it was a small dingy 
framed looking-glass, and just under it, on three brass nails, 
an eight-cornered crimson pin-cushion with little yellow bobs 
fastened to each corner ; several year’s almanacs, sewed to- 
gether, and a work-bag th^rt, like , Joseph’s coat, was of divers 
colors. Seven or eight kitchen chairs stood in a straight 
row back by the wall, in the corner \vas an old stand, and 
near it, seated on stools, were two children, boy and girl, — 


VIEWS OE CATHOLICITY. 


367 


one about five, the other three. They looked as if all the 
fogs of November had gathered round their hearts and dis-, 
polled the genial sunshine of childhood. They crowded up 
closer to each other, without taking any notice of Joe; but 
when Douce came in, they bent wistful eyes upon him, and 
began to whisper. At last the little boy most unexpectedly 
let out a laugh ; it was a feeble, timid laugh, but Mrs. 
Crushford heard it, turning sharply round, she walked to 
him, boxed his ears, and soundly shook him. Not a word 
was uttered on either side ; returning to her occupation be- 
fore the fire, she touched, with her foot, the rocker of a 
cradle. The infant in it w^as awake, but looked as if its lit- 
tle life was almost frightened out of it, by the scathing 
glances of its mother. Joe wondered if she ever smiled* 
and, as he watched her movements round the house, he came 
to the conclusion that even a smile from her would have 
something in it disagreeable. A strange, unaccountable 
silence seemed to have taken possession of the whole family^ 
and although the fire- burned brightly on the hearth, he felt 
a chill creep over him ; his ears ached for some other sound 
than the loud ticking of the clock, and the mournful, mur- 
muring song of the teakettle that, away in one corner of the 
hearth, moaned out its unceasing plaint. The meal ready, 
Mrs. Crushford lifted a plate piled with buttered pancakes 
to the table ; the tea was poured out; the children were seated 
on one side ; Mrs. Crushford at the head ; Mr. Crushford on 
her right, while little Joe was ordered to find a seat at the foot. 
Nothing was said during the meal ; and immediately after it 
Mrs. Crushford took up the baby, fed it, undressed it, and then 
rocked and sang it to sleep. The air was soothing, and well 
adapted to act as a soporific on infant nerves ; but she sang 
it in so stern and defiant a manner, that it screamed and 
struggled wildly in her arms. This only made her sing the 


368 


AGNES ; OR, 


louder, and rock the harder; and at last, as the only way to 
silence her, it closed its eyes and sobbingly went to sleep. 
Douce was then put into the wood-house, and Joe sent to 
bed. Kneeling by his bed, he pressed his hands over his 
eyes, and tried to shut out the sickening fear that he was 
really, truly alone — all alone in the world. He had hoped 
to find Mrs. Crushford like his gentle mother, or the kind 
Mrs. Connor. How grievously had he been disappointed ! 
Were all his hopes to prove as mocking illusions as this ? 
His parents had been called from him ; his little home broken 
up ; and from kind friends, who pitied his loneliness, he 
-was sent to strangers, whose hearts seemed steeled to 
every kindly instinct. Was this painful beginning only a 
shadowing forth of what his whole life was to be ? An 
anguished cry burst from his lips ; feeling the storm gather- 
ing wildly around him, he clasped tightly the crucifix he 
held in his hands, and bowing his head upon it, repeated as 
fast as he could an ‘ Onr Father’ and ‘ Hail Mary.’ Again 
and again, he repeated them, till, growing more calm, he 
sought his pillow and went to sleep ; not to the sweet re- 
freshing sleep of childhood, but to dream all night of Mrs. 
Crushford, her stony eyes and harsh discordant voice.” 

As Agnes concluded the chapter she closed the manu- 
script, and leaned her head on her hands. Thoughts of 
Edith Carter’s sickness, the estrangement in her family, 
little Joe Harney’s sorrows, and her mother’s mysterious 
words, all rushed upon her. She was weary and exhausted 
with long watching, and her mind was confused. She could 
not range the subjects, and treat them separatelv, as she 
wished. Little Joe’s sad, sorrowful face, Edith’s passing 
away, her mother’s strange language, and the lone, bitter 
feelings at her heart, all came up at once. She swept the 


A 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


,J>C9 

long curls from her hot brow, and rising hastily, exclaimed, 
“I must have music, or my brain will be wild.” She 
walked to the piano, seated herself and played several airs ; 
at the end of one she paused a moment, then again her fin- 
gers touched the keys, and the sweet notes of “Ave Maria 
Stella'' fioated on the air ; at first her rich voice was 
slightly tremulous, but gained tone and firmness as she 
proceeded ; as she concluded the last stanza, calm and col- 
lected, she arose from the instrument, threw herself on the 
sofa, and while resting, endeavored to study out how her 
father’s honor could be in the- least concerned in either the 
keeping or dismissing of Martha Clement. No satisfactory 
clue to the mystery could she find, and at length thought 
flagged, and the long lashes drooped in sleep. 

16 * 


3V0 


AGNES ; OE, 


CHAPTER XXL 

A FORTNIGHT liad passed, and again was Becky Starr in 
her grandparents’ room. A great change had come over 
them ; an invisible power had urged them on to study and 
reflect, till at length they became firmly convinced of the 
truth of the Catholic religion. A few days more, and the 
saving waters of baptism were to be poured over their sil- 
ver locks ; they were to be received into the true Church. 
Becky’s eyes beamed with happiness, but, as ever, she was 
calm and thoughtful. An open book lay on her lap, from 
which she had been reading, but now she had paused, to 
listen with respectful attention to her grandfather’s words. 

“ Becky, child,” he said, “ now that our eyes are opened, 
I cannot help wondering that there is any sectarianism in 
religion ; either the Catholic religion is true or false ; if true, 
then all others must be false, for there cannot be two true* 
religions. If false, then all the religions which sprang from 
it, or separated from it, must be false too, for no true reli- 
gion can be based on a false foundation. Consequently, in 
the latter case there can be no religion left to man. His 
only resource is to sink into feeble deism or utter atheism. 

“ And, grandfather,” asked Becky, “ was there not a time 
that you felt tempted to embrace the former of these alter- 
natives ?” 

“ Child,” he replied, “ for a short time in our struggles, 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 371 

motlier and I trembled over the brink of this terrible chasm, 
but a merciful Father drew us back ; we were saved,” lie 
raised his eyes, and an expression of intense gratitude lit up 
his venerable features. 

“ Becky,” he exclaimed, after a brief silence, “ mother 
and I have lived many years, and now looking back on the 
wastes of a long life, we feel what a mockery is this infalli- , 
ble guide, this boasted reason. Who can calmly sound the 
depths of the soul, and believe that God — a God of wisdom 
and mercy — would create man, and place him in this sin- 
cursed world, with no other guide than his own delusive 
reason to govern and direct him? We know the stars rise 
and set ; we know the genial rays of the sun melt down 
the icy stores of winter, and make earth yield her golden 
harvest to man; we know the seasons, why they change. 
But can reason, boasted reason, tell us when or how the 
boundless worlds around us were created ? where the sun 
obtained its renovating power, or when earth first com- 
menced her revolving course around it ? Can reason tell 
us when sin came into the world, or why death holds do- 
minion over man ? No, she cannot answer a single ques- 
tion the eager, panting soul puts to her. She only knows 
that man is here, a feeble, weak, and sin-bowed creature ; 
she cannot lighten his burden, if she attempts it she only 
crushes him still more. When he cries for bread, she gives 
him a stone ; when, faint and thirsty, he turns to the fount 
of faith, if she could she would dash the cooling draught 
^rom his parched lips. Reason, the finite reason of man, is 
weighed in the balance, and found wanting.” He paused ; 
a dignity sat enthroned on his lofty brow, and his eyes 
beamed with the brilliancy of youth. Raising his hand, he 
swept the thin locks back, and in *a voice trembling with 
intensity of feeling, exclaimed : 


872 


AGNES ; OE. 


“ And as to atheism, who does not shrink irom the very 
thought of it ? What is it but a degrading of the soul down 
to the level of the brute creation ? To believe nothing ; to 
know and feel no higher instinct than man is here, placed 
by some inexplicable chance, in a world, created, moved, and 
governed by chance, and that here he is to remain, till by 
the same chance he is again hurled back to his original 
nothing. Such a belief, or rather such a non-belief, how 
utterly antagonistic to the human heart. Among all nations, 
even the most barbarous and uncivilized, the belief of a Su- 
preme Being marks the fundamental principle of their va- 
rious forms of worship. Out of punishment to man, G-od 
hides himself from him,, and lo ! does he cease to worship ? 
No ; the soul that has the impress of the Deity stamped 
upon her cannot wholly forget her divine origin. The glo- 
rious anthem the morning stars sang together when, the 
creation finished, God rested from his works, comes back 
to her from the dim ages of the past, filling her with a 
strange joy, and inciting her on to some goal in the future. 
She looks above, around, no God can she see, and unable to 
contain the worshipping feelings that well up within, she 
bows down to blocks of marble, and brass, and wood, and 
makes to herself deities, always remembering that above all, 
though she cannot see Him, is a Supreme God, great, and 
powerful, and to whom all the lesser deities, her deities are 
subject. The soul of man must have something to worship ; 
hence, if God removes himself from her, she bows down to 
worship gods of her own making. Deism and atheism 
refuted, where shall we find the true worship of God ? 
where find the laws He has formed for the guidance and 
protection of man? In the repository in which He placed 
them ! in the Holy Catholic Church.” His whole face was 
lighted up, and a joy and happiness not of earth seemed 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


373 


resting upon it. Becky listened with wonder. Who would 
have once thought that her stern old grandfather would ever 
use such words ‘ nowhere but in the Holy Catholic Church 
were the laws which God formed for the guidance and pro- 
tection of man to be found ? Oh, the ever-enduring mercy 
of God! the wonderful power of prayer.’ ‘No one hath 
hoped in the Lord, and hath been confounded.’* 

. After the lapse of a few moments, grandfather again spoke : 
“ Child, you were reading a book that has for mother and I 
a peculiar interest. We, who have passed through similar 
trials, can fully appreciate the difficulties that rose up before 
Ramsay, when he attempted to solve the mysteries around 
him. He could not be an atheist ; he was too sincere and 
honest to remain an infidel. In the struggles that rent his 
soul, he suffered the most intense agony. Oh, child, those 
who have always enjoyed the light of the true faith, 
know nothing of the anguish that bows down one when he 
finds himself in an unknown waste, with an impenetrable dark- 
ness around him. As the wrecked mariner longs forthe land, 
so he longs for light ; and oh, Becky, child 1” he exclaimed, 
with great feeling, “ mother and I know just how he felt, just 
how he suffered ; and we know too, — blessed forever be God ! 
— how his heart throbbed and ached with the intensity of joy 
when the light burst upon him, and the darkness compre- 
hended the light.” Tears suffused his eyes, and in a thick 
tremulous voice, he added : “ But, dear child, let me inter- 
rupt you no longer, and, if you are not too weary, you 
may go back to the first page.” 

“ No, dear grandfather, not at all weary.” 

She went back to the first page ; leaf after leaf she turn* 
ed, occasionally pausing and glancing at her grandparents, 


* Eccles. ii., 11. 


374 


AGNES ; OE, 


when, by an impressive inclination of the head, they would 
signify their desire for her to go on. 

At length, no longer able to restrain her feelings, grand- 
mother exclaimed : “ How beautiful, how lucid, the Catholic 
religion !” 

“And above all, mother, how sensible — how suited to 
the wants of every one ! She is not religion merely for the 
great ones of earth ; like her Divine Founder, she embraces 
in her maternal arms the lowest, the humblest.” He paused 
and musingly added : 

“ Strange, strange ! that we should have been so blind !” 

To remove the unpleasant reflections, Becky hastily asked : 
“ Grandfather, will you not hear me, further ? I long to read 
more, that you may see the subtle sophistry of infidelity 
fade and die away in the powerful light of Catholic reason- 
ing.” 

“ Yes, yes, child ; read on.” 

Jane glided noiselessly in, and seated herself on an otto- 
man at her grandmother’s knee. Many times had she read 
these same soul-struggles ; yet, now, she listened with unaba- 
ted interest. There are pieces w'hich, like the melodies of 
childhood, ever charm and delight the ear. Such was the 
account of the conversion of this truly great and good man. 
Grandrn other softly passed her hand over Jane’s golden 
locks, and bent on Becky an eager glance, fearful of losing 
a single word. A long train of past events arose before 
them ; the prophecies contained in the ancient books fulfill- 
ed ; the Jewish religion passed away, and a new form of 
Avorship instituted in its place, the LaAvgiver enforcing 
this new form by miracles the most publia — the most worn 
derful. 

Unweariedly Becky read on; when she came to where it 
speaks of this life as being infinitely short, an obscure night 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


375 


•where the pleasures we meet are but transient dreams, and 
the sorrows we feel but wholesome bitterness, to make us 
loathe the vanities of the world, and thirst only for the pure, 
unchangeable joys of heaven, grandmother said : 

“ Becky, dear, pause here, and lay the book aside. These 
words are particularly addressed to those yet in the spring- 
time of life ; reflect upon them, and let them not pass easily 
from your mind.” 

“ But •wdiy, grandmother, do you think they are addressed 
to the young more particularly than to the old ?” 

“ Because, child,” answered grandfather, “ the old, by 
experience, already know them to be true ; but to the young 
they seem strange anjd out of place ; pleasure to them is the 
only good — pain, the only evil. They are told this is not so, 
and before they can fully realize the truth of the statement, 
they must, as mother says, reflect upon it, and let it not pass 
easily from their minds. But blessing on thee, Becky ; now 
go, Jane, too ; we, mother and I, have more reading before 
us, and we wish to be left alone.” 

“ But, grandfather,” said Jane, gliding up to him, with a 
tear in her large blue eye, “ won’t you say blessings on me, 
too ?” 

He looked up surprised into her young face, over which 
sixteen summers had not yet passed, and raising her hand, 
exclaimed : 

“Yes, yes! blessings on you too, my fair-haired angel; 
now go.” Arm-in-arm, the cousins left the room, and re- 
paired to their little oratory, w^here, gn bended knees, they 
thanked the God whose mercy endureth forever. 

It was in the afternoon of the next day that they again 
called on Uieir grandparents. As they entered their room, 
grandfather took off his spectacles and, pointing to them to 
be seated, he said : 


376 


AGio:s; OE, 


“ Becky, cHld, I have just been reading a volume which, 
in days gone past, afforded me great satisfaction.” 

“ What is it, grandfather ?” 

‘‘ Basselas. I have again read that chapter where Neka- 
yah continues her remarks on private life.” 

“ And, grandfather, a painful picture of life Johnson 
draws.” 

“Yes, child; and in the great majority of cases, a 
very true one ; but now, turn to the chapter where they 
converse with an old man. There, now, ’ read the old 
man’s experience. Mother, that always goes home to my 
heart.” 

Becky read, “ ‘ Lady,’ answered he, ‘ let the gay and the 
vigorous expect pleasure in their excursions ; it is enough 
that age can attain ease. To me, the world has lost 'its 
novelty ; I look around and see what I remember to have 
seen in happier days. I rest against a tree, and consider 
that in the same shade I once disputed upon the annual 
overflow of the Nile with a friend who is now silent in the 
grave.’ ” 

“ How true I” exclaimed grandfather, “ how true ! The ‘ 
face and form of many a friend who has long since faded 
from earth often and often come back to me just as they 
looked in the olden time. Sometimes ’tis in their gay uni- 
form on the training ground, and again, ’tis as they ap- 
peared at the pleasant little gatherings in our eastern 
homes.” He paused a moment, and then resumed with a 
sigh, “ As to those who lived on to old age, they changed 
so much that they seemed not. the happy, light-hearted 
beings our memory treasured up. No ; years had so com- 
pletely changed them, that it was impossible to'^race a sin- 
gle resemblance to their former selves. Mother, you re- 
member Nathan Howell ?” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


377 


“Yes, father, a generous, impulsive boy, and an intelli- 
gent and enterprising man.” 

“ Becky, child, we parted with him in youth, when his 
cheek wore the rough, ruddy glow of the farmer-hoy ; when 
his thick mass of dark hair was carelessly brushed from off 
a smooth, handsome forehead ; when his clear gray eyes 
shone with all the fire of youth, and when his buoyant step, 
broad chest, and rounded limbs told of a long lease of life 
stretching on .before him. Such he was when we parted. 
Years passed, and again we met. What changes! what 
changes had come over him — over me too ! We who had 
parted in the full vigor of youth met and shook Hands in 
all the feebleness of age. His cheek was pale and shrunken, 
his hair thin and silvered, his eye dull and faded, his form 
bent and contracted. As I held his hand in mine, it seemed 
impossible that he could be the Nathan Howell of my 
youth. His voice, all broken, sounded not like the rich, 
manly voice of the boy I had known and loved so well. 
Long, long we gazed in each other’s faces, trying to recall 
some resemblance of the past, but in vain ; the outward 
form was all changed — only in memory did it remain.” 

“Becky,” said grandmother, “ it would have made yofir 
heart ache to have seen those old men fall on each other’s 
shoulders, and weep like children.” 

“ But he is gone, he is gone,” said grandfather, in a 
trembling voice ; “ ’tis three years since he too went.” 
Grandfather mused awhile, and then suddenly raising his 
eyes from the carpet, exclaimed : 

“ But we are forgetting, child, that you did not read the 
whole of Ramsay for us yesterday; we would like to hear 
the rest to-day.” 

“ Sure enough, grandfather.” She arose, walked to the 
table, took up tlie little volume, and reseating herself, said: 


378 


AGNES ; OK, 


“ Where did I leave off?” 

.“You left off,” replied Jane, “ where it speaks of this 
life as infinitely short.” 

“ Ah yes, now I recollect ; thank you, J ane, for remind- 
ing me.” She turned to the page, and in her singularly 
clear and musical voice read to them. With the deepest 
attention they listened ; the shades of evening were gather- 
ing fast around them when she closed the book. Jane 
quietly left the room to assist her mother in the evening 
meal. 

“ What sensible reasoning !” exclaimed grandfather : 
“ none of the wild vagaries of the philosophers, who seem 
to think it a wondrous display of intellect to enwrap 
themselves and readers in the murky folds of doubt and 
uncertainty. Becky, child, I am an old man, and have 
looked around with the eyes of one who knows he has but 
a little longer to stay, and I see the spirit of infidelity which 
. is so widely spread throughout the length and breadth of 
the land is nothing more than the prophesied and expected 
changes of error. The Holy Fathers have truly said that 
error is forever changing. How could it be otherwise ? 
Way down in the depths of the soul, is an ever-yearning 
thirst for Truth. She seeks it, she hopes she has found it; 
she takes the semblance, and makes much of it. Presently 
she sees it is not exactly what she wants, there is some- 
thing lacking ; then she begins to correct, to remodel. For 
awhile she is pleased with the new form, but it soon loses 
its charm, it is not Truth after all, let her color and patch 
it as she will. It cannot satisfy her ; and at last sickened 
and disgusted, grown reckless with constant disappoint- 
ments and ever-yearning desires, she plunges headlong into 
the seething whirlpool of infidelity.” 

“ Grandfather,” rejoined Becky, and she spoke with 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


S79 


great earnestness, “ were it not for the promise extended 
to the Catholic Church, that the Spirit of Truth should 
always remain with her, and that the united powers of hell 
should never prevail against her, I would tremble at the 
wide spread of infidelity, and fear it would never pause till 
it had swept all traces of Christianity from the face of the 
earth, and brought it back do the grossest, blackest pagan- 
ism ; but, assured of the protection of Heaven, I rest secure 
and fear not, for the Catholic Church ‘is the same yesterday, 
to-day, and forever.’ ” 

Her grandparents turned their faces to the fire, and, 
gazing on its glowing embers, dwelt for a while on her 
words, and then with grateful hearts meditated on the great 
mercy that had been shown them. ^ 



880 


AGNES ; OK, ' 


CHAPTER XXII.' 

Agnes Hilton was seated at ter desk. Of all the house, 
her own room, since little Mark’s adoption, was the only 
one she liked to be in. Sometimes she would pause for 
a while in the parlors, but felt uneasy and restless till she 
was back to her sanctum. This morning, as she sat with 
her arms thrown over the desk, and her head bowed down 
upon them, a painful feeling of loneliness oppressed her. 
An open letter had fallen from her lap, and was lying on 
the carpet at her feet. It was from Walter Starr, telling 
her he would soon be with her. There was a time when a 
letter from Walter, bearing such glad news, would have 
thrilled her with joy ; but now she read it with a strange 
feeling of dread. In the wretched loneliness of her heart, 
with all the intensity of her nature had she longed to see 
him ; but now, when he might at any moment appear be- 
fore her, she shrank from the thought of meeting him. She 
could not help feeling that he would not sympathize in her 
grief, might even recoil from her for the cause of it, and 
she determined he should never know it. With lov’er-eye 
keenness he had perceived a great sadness under the forced 
gayety of her letters ; her very mirth had in it something 
caustic and bitter ; her expressions of unchangeable alfec- 
tion, something reproving and fearing; and in his answers, 
which breathed the most unalterable devotion, he had 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


381 


begged to know why this brooding spirit of doubt and sad- 
ness. With the fair, unsullied page before her, she had care- 
fully avoided any direct reply ; but when the melting tones 
of his voice fill her ears, and his kind and pitying eyes 
beam full upon her, as if they would read her very soul, 
could she dissemble then ? She feared she could not, and 
as much as she longed for some kind friend to whom she 
could unburden her sorrow, she shrank from the thought 
of ever revealing it to him. Raising her head, she opened 
a book and read several pages ; closing it, she sat for some 
time buried in thought, injured feelings of pride rankled 
in her heart. Her aversion to Martha had deepened into 
hatred ; she could not look on the pale face of the gentle 
girl without a deep, settled anger lighting her eye. How 
terrible is pride ! With her pride, came jealousy ; with 
jealousy, hatred and anger ; peace was swept from her heart, 
and nursing her passions, with everything around her to 
make her happy, she was wretched, truly wretched. Un- 
able to solve the mystery of her mother’s words, she forgot 
to take the warning they were intended to convey. Mark 
she treated with cold, distant reserve ; Martha with abso- 
lute rudeness. The latter would have left, but Father 
Joseph advised her to stay awhile longer. Alfred and her 
mother still dwelt on the great good fortune of little Mark, 
and not a word of her sorrow did she breathe to them ; she 
could not cloud their happiness, and bravely she strove to 
appear cheerful whenever she was with them. Mr. and 
Mrs. Hilton seemed more than ever attached to her, and 
very frequently bringing in her sewing, Mrs. Hilton would 
spend a half-day with her, telling her scenes of her early 
life, and drawing pleasant conversation from her in return. 
She dearly loved them, but for Agnes she still had to strug 
gle hard to keep down all harsh and angry feelings ; but 


382 


AGNES ; OR, 


she did struggle, and so far success had crowned her efforts. 
When she would feel her cheeks burn and her heart throb 
at her taunting remarks, with the silent “ Our Father” and 
“ Hail Mary” for herself, went up another little prayer for 
Agnes, that God might pardon and convert her. She knew 
a mystery was connected with little Mark’s adoption, and 
Mr. and Mrs. Hilton’s insisting on retaining her in their 
service, and she patiently waited for time to solve it. 

Agnes looked with a listless eye upon her drawings ; she 
took up her crayon, gave a few light touches to an unfin- 
ished picture, then laid it down, and opening her manu- 
script turned to the eighth chapter. 

“ It was with an oppressive feeling of loneliness that little 
Joe awoke early the next morning, dressed himself and 
knelt down to his morning prayers. All the bright hopes 
of his life had faded away, not a ray broke through the 
darkness that enveloped him. Alone ! all alone ! no kind 
face to smile upon him, no gentle voice to speak soothing 
words to his desolate heart. Bowing his head in mute 
sorrow, the waves washed over his soul. The gray light of 
morning carne in through the chamber window ; raising his 
tearless eyes, he saw the crucifix lying on his pillow. That 
blessed emblem reminded him of the love God bore to 
fallen man — and would the good God, who died for him, 
leave him alone without friends — without comfort. Had 
he not given him an angel to have a tender care over him ? 
Was he not at that very moment looking with pity on the 
sorrows of his young charge, and trying to instil into his 
mind peace-giving confidence in the Father ? His parents 
had been called from him, he had been parted from his 
dear friends, and only a little boy sent out into the world — 
but was he sent alone ? No ; as God gave his angel to 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


383 


guide and protect Tobias when he left his father’s house, 
so now he felt an angel had been given him ; throwing his 
arms up over the pillow he bov.*ed his head upon the cru- 
cifix, and alone, all alone in the world, knew that the God 
of the orphan would order all for his good. Strengthened 
and comforted, he arose from his knees as Mr. Crushford 
called him. Hastily descending the stairs, Mr. Crushford 
said : 

“ ‘You may take the pails and milk the same cows you 
milked last night.’. 

“Joe took the pails and proceeded to the cow-yard. 
Aftep milking he was told to feed the pigs and clean out 
the stable. This done, he went back to the house, break- 
fast was not yet ready, and, in a tone which made her 
order seem despotic,- Mrs. Crushford bade him fill up the 
wood-box. As he opened the wood-house door, Douce 
flew upon him, and laid his great shaggy head lovingly 
upon his cheek ; he stopped a moment to caress him, and 
Mrs. Crushford’s hard tones sounded in his ears. 

“ ‘ Come away from that dog, and do as I bid you.’ 

“ He tore himself from Douce, and carried in the wood. 
The little boy and girl were up, and, with the keen interest 
of childhood, they watched his every movement. At last 
the little boy crowded up to him, and timidly putting his 
hand in his, in a low voice asked : 

“ ‘ Be you bound out to my pa V 

“ A box on his ear from his mother answered him. 

“ ‘ Didn’t your father and me tell you you wasn’t to have 
any thing to say to him ?’ The child drew back, and little 
Joe looked up astonished. 

“ Whatever question she read in his face she took no 
notice of it, but sharply ordered him, ‘ if the wood was 
all brought in, to go and bring in a basket of chips ; idle 


384 


AGNES ; OE, 


boys never come to good.’ As be lugged in a great 
heavy basket, she lifted the breakfast to the table. In the 
same order as the night before, they seated themselves 
round it. Douce, in the mean time, sensible' dog that he 
was, fearing his breakfast would be neglected, as it most 
assuredly would have been, went to a large kettle of 
mashed potatoes and sour milk, standing near the pig 
pen, and bountifully helped himself. The meal over, Mr. 
Crushford and Joe went to the corn-field "and husked till 
noon. Several times Joe strove to engage him in conver- 
sation, but the most he could get from him was : ‘ He 
didn’t like to see little boys have quite so much to •say, 
and if he stayed with him he’d have to learn to hold his 
tongue and mind his work.’ This, little Joe could not 
doubt ; if for a moment he stopped, to pat Douce on. the 
head, or speak a kiud word to him, he would be instantly 
reminded : ‘ He didn’t get him to fool away his time with 
his dog,’ and once he even went so far as to tell him : 

‘ He know’d such a thing as shooting dogs when there 
wasn’t no other way to get rid of them.’ 

“Joe husked away with all his might, and though he ' 
could not strip the ears as fast as Mr. Crushford, he could 
not help thinking how delighted Mr. Connor would have 
been, and what kind words of encouragement he would have 
received from him, but Mr. Crushford only looked coldly 
and said something about boys not being what they were 
when he was young. At dinner he took especial pains to 
tell Mrs. Crushford that Joe only husked three baskets to 
his five. Directing a severe glance at the orphan, she re- 
marked : ‘ He might have expected it ; she knowed just how 
it would be the minute she saw his good-for-nothing dog.’ 
It was very evident poor Douce was to be no favorite in his 
new home. And how the Connors loved him ! What glo- 


YIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


385 


rious frolics he had had with them all, with Bernard, Mike, 
and Hughy, and even Maurice ! Returning from the fields 
in the evening the same programme as the night beforoy 
chores, supper, and sent to bed. Day after day the same 
routine. When- the corn was all husked Mr. Crushford 
began getting up wood for his winter’s use, and little Joe 
was bitterly complained of, because he could cliop but three 
quarters of a cord a day. How dreary a time to the orphan 
boy. Not a ray broke through the gloom that hung around 
him : remembrance of the kind tones and loving smiles of 
his early home only made his young heart more sad and 
desolate. Let him toil as he would, no friendly word of 
encouragement did he receive. The children were sedu- 
lously kept from him, as if he were a tainted thing. Douce 
Avas his sole companion ; but only on Sundays, when the 
family were gone to church, 'did he get a moment to caress 
him. 

“Mr. Connor had exacted a promise that Sis religious 
piinciples should not be infringed upon, and though Mrs. 
Crushford thought ‘ it looked more respectable for folks to 
go to meeting Sundays, than to be hanging round home,’ 
they never insisted on his going with them. Joe would 
have been glad if they had been as faithful to another 
promise made to Mr. Connor, which was, that he should be 
sent three months to school in the winter. Winter-school 
commenced, but he was kept busy ; and if, at any time, he 
ventured to remind Mr. Crushford of this second promise, 
he would pause from his work, eye him from head to foot, 
and sneeringly remark : 

“ ‘ A great deal of good book-learning would do you, I 
guess.’ 

“ A family lived quite near, but they had no intercourse 
with them. Mr. Bonner had a large family, worked land on 
17 


386 


AGNES ; OR, 


shares, and lived in a log-house. Mrs. Crnshford looked 
down upon them with great contempt, and would not have 
let her dog, had she owned one, associate with such. Mrs. 
Bonner, it seemed, more than any of the rest, excited her 
particular aversion. She had three grown-up daughters, 
and when either of these were not out at service, they 
helped her so much that she was able to take in a great deal 
of weaving, and got thereby the name of a thrifty, hard- 
working woman ; and it was prophesied, when John Bon- 
ner’s children all grew up, John Bonner would have a farm 
of his own, and in his old age find himself a comforta- 
ble, well-to-do farmer. Now all this exceedingly annoyed 
Mrs. Crnshford. In the first place, to say Mrs. Bonner w^s 
an industrious woman, and helped her husband along, was 
just as much as folks knew ; she guessed if she had three 
such stout girls as Ruth, Sarah, and Huldah to do her work 
for her, she could take in weaving too, and she wouldn’t 
make such a fuss about it, and boast and brag as they did 
either ; and as to John Bonner’s ever having a farm of his 
own, she only hoped she might live to see it. There was one 
trait in her character that, more than any other — even more 
than her dislike for the Bonners — amazed little Joe. She 
professed the utmost abhorrence of a lie ; was constantly 
reminding him where liars went, in a peculiarly grating 
tone, that told she suspected that he was one. If, in speak- 
ing of the Connors, he happened to relate any incident of 
thj? year he was with them, she would look hard at him, and 
ask if he had been taught to know how wicked it was to 
lie. And yet, after all this, he often saw her show the 
squire’s wife, who frequently visited her, yarn that she had 
spun and garments that she had made, when he, from being 
the very one to go with them and carry them home, knew 
thev were spun and made by the despised Bonners. When 


VIEWS OS' CATHOLICITY. 


387 


Mrs. Mason would express astonishment how one with three 
little children, and no one to help her, could possibly find 
time to do so much, she would gravely tell her she did it 
by economizing every minute, and not forgetting the duties 
she owed her family. Ruth Bonner was hired to make a 
ruffled shirt for Mr. Crushford, and a worked cap for Mrs. 
Crushford, and on Squire Mason’s wife’s next visit they were 
brought out and shown, not only as proofs of Mrs. Orush- 
ford’s great industry, but as samples of her exceeding taste 
and ingenuity. Joe often felt tempted to ask her if she 
knew how wicked it was to lie, and where liars went ; but 
this would never have done, and so he contented himself 
with w’ondoring what Mrs. Crushford called a lie. 

“How different was his gentle mother! How shy of 
taking praise to herself! When Mrs. Connor extolled the 
make of a neat little suit her slender fingers had put to- 
gether, how careful she was to tell her that it was one of 
her neighbors who had cut and basted it for her, and when- 
his father declared he had no doubt she could have done it 
just as well Without any assistance, she was so ingenious ; 
how she blushed and told him he was wrong ; that she 
wbuld have spoiled it, only Mrs. Gaylard came in just in time 
to save it. And then Mrs. Connor, too, how in her good- 
natured way she scolded Mr. Connor when he blundered 
and said she had made six hundred pounds of butter when 
she had made but five hundred and fifty — and then to ask 
J oe if he had ever been tauo-ht to know how wicked it was 
to lie! Bitter feelings rankled in his "heart, and he could 
hardly say that part of the ‘ Lordls Prayer’ where we beg to 
be forgiven as we forgive others. With Mr. Crushford it 
was quite the reverse. He was likely to have two hundred 
and fifty or three hundred bushels of corn, but he looked 
dismal ; told his neighbors he did not expect more than one 


388 


AGNES ; OE. 


hundred and fifty, or at the most two hundred, and drew 
from them how much they would have. Where it was 
more than his reported number, he would tell, on reaching 
home, how hard he had worked ; and yet, after all, such and 
such a one was more favored than him, and then he would 
grumble, act disconsolate, and unmercifully drive little Joe, 
as if to revenge it all on him. If, on the other hand, it was 
less, he would insist they might have had as much if they 
had only taken care of it, and this was a lesson for him to 
see to his; and little Joe would be ordered round, as if on 
him depended the whole success of getting in his fall crop 
in time. The same with the wood ; he knew there would 
come such a snow-storm that there would be no getting into 
the woods ; and if they did not stir round pretty briskly, 
they’d find themselves overtaken like the sinner on his death- 
bed. 

“Not a moment’s rest was allowed him, although the 
expected overwhelming snow-storm made not its appear- 
ance. After the wood for the family was got up, then he 
began to grumble because he knew Joe was so shiftless, 
that he would be good for nothing just when he needed 
him the most. Now he had forty cords of wood to draw 
to the village of Amstara, three miles from there ; must have 
it to help make out the spring payment on his farm, and 
what help would Joe be, he would like to know ? The lazi- 
ness of the boy was enough to drive any other man to 
thrash him every day of his life. 

“Poor Joe ! many and many a time he wished for death, 
but death came not to his.relief. No; his labor was not 
done, he must yet toil on ; and he must not despair — a 
kind Father watched over him, and the clouds would by- 
and-by break away. These were the whisperings of his 
good angel. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


389 


‘‘ Christmas, day of sanctity and bliss, came, but Joe 
was not allowed a holiday, was not even granted time to 
read Mass prayers. Before it was yet light he was hurried 
to the barn to do the ‘ chores,’ and after breakfast sternly 
ordered to drive the team, laden with wood, to the village, 
and see he didn’t hang round and waste his time. With 
tears dimming his eyes he took the reins in his hands, and 
thought of the happy Connors on that blessed morning, 
gathered in their little parlor, kneeling before a picture of 
the ‘ Infant in the Manger,’ and offering up to God their 
heartfelt prayers. Although away from them, and in sor- 
row, he tried to join them. He repeated the ‘ Litany of 
Jesus,’ and tried to sing ‘ Adeste Fideles,’ but it was more 
than he could do, his voice died away ; stepping on to the 
runners, he threw his arms up over the wood and sobbed 
ii^ very abandonment of grief. Douce crowded close to 
him, and moaned, as if he knew what sorrow his young 
master was in, and felt his inability to lighten it. Often 
and often was he tempted to leave them and go back to the 
Connors, but the hateful remark of Mr. Reed, that ‘ Ilis 
father and mother dying when he was young, wasn’t no 
reason for his always a hanging on to other folks’ skirts and 
not knowing what his own limbs was made for,’ rung in 
his ears. No, no ; he would not go back to them — he 
would not hang on to their skirts. 

“ The sun shone down on glittering snow and ice-bound 
creeks ; he could not help thinking of the last Christmas 
his father was with him. Mr. and Mrs. Connor, with little 
Miles, had come over the day before, and, though his 
father had sat up quite late, talking of the green land of his 
birth, he rested better that night, and the next morning ‘ 
rose, feeling stronger than he had felt for weeks. As soon 
as the ‘ chores’ were done at the barn, they all knelt to Mass 


390 


AGNES; OE, 


prayers ; Mr. Connor being tbe one to read them. How 
deep and fervent liis voice ; and bis father, how reverently 
he folded his thin, white hands, and bowed his head till 
the thick mass of raven hair fell over his pale, lofty brow. 
His mother and Mrs. Connor knelt beside each other ; what 
earnest piety shone on their countenances ; and his mother, 
how frequently her eye, full of tender solicitude, turned to 
his father. Little Joe remembered it all, and the cheerful 
breakfast that followed. Mr. and Mrs. Connor and his 
father talked of the bright Christmases at home — of the 
Easters, Whit-Sundays, and other festivals of the Church, 
and told many a pleasant anecdote of their respective par- 
ish priests — Father Brady and Father Gillen. 

“ He was a little boy, and not expected to take part in 
the conversation ; but, how happy he was sitting there 
listening to it, and glancing every now and then through 
the white-curtained window, at the bright sunshine and 
glittering snow without. Oh ! how different ; how differ- 
ent a Christmas was to-day ? The sun shone the same ; the 
snow was just as pure and white, but all else, how changed ! 
no parents, no friends, no Mass prayers, no kind words. 
Tears filled his eyes, wiping them away. Douce rubbed his 
great shaggy head against his knee ; he tried to speak to 
him, but his heart was too full. 

“ He had now reached the village, and soon unloaded 
his wood before Mr. Stanley’s door. As he turned the 
horses’ heads homeward, George Bonner opened the door, 
and came, out. 

“ ‘ A merry Christmas to you, Joe Harny,’ he said. 

“ These were the first pleasant words he had heard for 
days, in truth, from the time he had taken home the last 
piece of sewing from the Bonners. Mrs. Bonner always 
spoke kindly to him, as if she pitied his loneliness, and 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


391 


had such a hearty, good-natured way about her, that she 
always reminded him of Mrs. Connor. 

“ ‘ A merry Christmas to you, Joe Harny ; why don’t 
you speak ?’ 

“ But, poor Joe’s self-command was all gone ; leaning 
against the stakes of the empty sled, he sobbed violently. 

“ ‘ "VV^hat’s the matter V asked George, in a kind voice, 
coming up to him, and laying his hand affectionately on 
his arm. 

“‘Don’t ask me; don’t ask me ;’ he sobbed. 

“‘Y«s, tell me, Joe; mother says hidden sorrow eats 
away the heart. Tell me, ^Ind you’ll feel better; and, if you 
don’t want me to say any thing about it, I won’t.’ 

“ Joe felt so lonely, so wretched, that the kind words of 
George fell all unheeded on his ears. 

“ Again laying his hand on his arm, in a low voice he 
said, ‘ Joe, the folks in the store are looking at you ; if you 
can’t help crying, come to the shed, yonder.’ 

“ Joe now looked up and stoutly rubbed his cheeks. 

“ ‘ Come, Joe, come.’ George had taken hold of his hand. 

“ ‘ No, no, I can’t,’ he said, withdrawing it, and taking 
up the reins, ‘ Mr. Crushford will scold if I am not back in 
the right time.’ * 

“ George’s face reddened. ‘ He’s always fault-finding, ain’t 
he ?’ he indignantly asked. 

“ ‘ I can’t please him,’ Joe admitted. • 

“ ‘ To be sure you can’t. Who could please him^ I’d like 
to know ? He don’t never let you have any time to rest, 
does he ? talks of little boys growing up in laziness, and 
drives you all the time, as if hjs life depended on grinding all 
the work out of you he can ? You needn’t tell me ; I know 
all about him ; I guess I haven’t worked six weeks for him, 
without finding out what he is.’ 


S92 


AGNES ; OE, 


“Joe looked into the frank, open countenance before 
him. 

“ ‘ I tell you what it is,’ said George, warming with the 
subject, ‘ I wouldn’t stay with them. I don’t care ; if you 
be bound out to him. I’d run away.’ 

“ ‘ But I am not bound to him.’ 

“ ‘ Aint ? well, then, he lied to father ; he said y^ou was.’ 

“ ‘ Said I was bound to him ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, said you was bound out to him.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t believe it. Don’t believe it. Mr. Connor 
wouldn’t do it.’ ♦ 

“ ‘ Then why, in the name of wondet, do you stay with 
him ?’ 

“ ‘ Because I don’t want to be hanging on to other folks’ 
skirts, and not know what my own limbs are made for.’ 

“ ‘ Extremely nice that, I declare. But how did it get 
into your head that you must be hanging on to other folks’ 
skirts, if you wasn’t killing yourself for him. I suppose 
that’s some of his lessons, ain’t it ?’ 

‘ ‘ No ; he didn’t say it, it was Mr. Reed.’ 

“ ‘ Mr. Reed, his brother-in-law ?’ 

“‘Yes.’ 

“ ‘ Ah ha, ah ha ! that’s it.’ George looked particular!) 
wise, and then remarked : 

“ ‘ You was to go to school this winter, wasn’t you?’ 

“ ‘ Yes; three months.’ 

“ ‘ Three months ! You won’t see the inside of a school 
house this winter.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, oh !’ groaned little Joe, as hopes of getting a brief 
respite from constant fault-finding, keeping ahead of Ber- 
nard Connor, and meeting pleasant companions, faded away. 

“‘You won’t. It’s a fact, you won’t. He promised to 
send you, but he don’t mind breaking his promises.’ 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


393 


“They had now got opposite Mr. Bonner’s, and jumping 
off the sled, George said : 

“ ‘ Come over to our house some Sunday, when they’ve 
gone to meeting.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, I can’t ; he’d find it out and be so angry.’ 

“‘Joe Harny, you’re a fool !’ and, with this complimentary 
remark, George crammed both hands into his pockets, and 
went whistling up to the house. 

“Poor Joe! he hardly knew what to do. Should he 
write to the Connors ? Mr. Reed would say he was going 
to hang on to their skirts. No, no ; he would bear it; he 
would never let them know it. 

“ As he drove into the yard, Mr. Crushford asked him if 
he knew how long he had been gone. Joe told him he did 
not. 

“ ^Well; you was two hours.’ 

“ ‘ But I had to walk the horses all the way there.’ 

“ ‘ And I guess all the way back,’ he sneeringly re- 
plied. ‘ Now load up, and see if you can’t be two hours 
again.’ 

“ ‘ The horses sweat going.’ 

“ ‘ And you did, too, didn’t you ?’ 

“Joe made no reply to the taunting remarks; he only 
thought of George Bonner’s words. 

“ And George was right in saying he would not see the 
inside of a school-house that winter. When the wood 
business was finished, then came the threshing of wheat, 
with heavy flails ; and after that, the corn, with horses ; and 
then it ' was time to prepare* the spouts and buckets for 
making sugar, and school was out. Day after day he 
passed in the sugar-bush, from before light in the morning 
till nine and ten o’clock at night, carrying, with a heavy, 
clumsy neck-yoke, two large pails of sap from the scattered 


394 


AGNES ; OE, 


trees. When the sap ran slowly and a moment’s rest might 
have been given him, Mr. Crushford would have him haul 
up some fallen limbs, and set him to chopping and breaking 
them up, to feed the fire, while he would sit in the little 
shanty he had erected, smoke his pike, and skim the kettles. 
A small piece of pie and a thin slice of bread and butter — 
the butter so lightly spread that Joe never had the good 
fortune to be able either to see or taste it — frequently 
formed his dinner and supper. Douce was wholly neglected, 
and went hungry, unless he gave him a part of his own 
scanty meal ; or was able, before he left the house in 
the morning, to steal a dry bit for him. After the 
sugar-making, and before commencing the spring’s work, 
Mr. Crushford hack promised to let him make his Easter 
visit to the Connors; but, like his promise of sending 
him to school, he forgot it. Perhaps they were ashamed 
to have the Connors see his new coat and the clothes they 
had so carefully mended, all in rags. Working hard all 
winter for them, Mrs. Crushford had never sewed even the 
slightest rend. His stockings were all out and his boots 
leaked shockingly ; the roses that Mrs. Donnell had remarked 
•on his cheeks, were faded away, and hi^ face was lean and 
haggard. 

“ It was Saturday afternoon ; Mr. Crushford and his 
family were going to a sister’s, living about six miles from 
them, to visit some relatives from the West. Before start- 
ing, to insure no laziness on Joe’s part, during his absence, 
Mr. Crushford gave him a task, to plant, before he got back, 
seven rows of corn, thirty rods long. It was more than he 
could possibly do, and so he told him. 

“ ‘ I guess, if you start your boots, and not stand as if 
you wanted the grass to grow under your feet, you can do 
it.’ 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


395 


“‘No, no; Mr. Crusliford, I can’t. Yon couldn’t do it 
yourself.’ 

‘“You want me to give you two rows, so you can play 
all the time with them ere good-for-nothing Bonners, don’t 
you? You see that ere stump yonder ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes.’ 

“ ‘Well, from the fence to that ere stamp is seven rows, 
see that you have it done when I get home.’ With that 
he deliberately turned and walked into the house. Joe 
saw them start, taking with them their children, and hope- 
less of accomplishing his task, he worked on. 

“ An hour or two had passed, when a cheery voice called 
him : he looked up and saw Gleorge and John Bonner stand- 
ing by the fence, which lay between Mr. Crushford’s farm 
and the farm their father worked. 

“ ‘ And so Mr. Crushford’s gone ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes.’ 

“ ‘ How much did he leave for you to do ?’ 

“ ‘ Seven rows.’ 

“ ‘ Seven rows ! And do you expect to do it ?’ 

“ ‘ No ; I told him I couldn’t.’ 

“ ‘ And he said you must ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes.’ 

“ ‘ Of course he did. I know him like a book ; the only 
thing he thinks little boys are made for, is to grind work 
out of them. Father hired me out to him last summer, for 
six months, at four dollars a month. I stayed six weeks, 
and father said I shouldn’t stay any longer, and so he took 
me away.’ 

“ ‘ Did he pay you for the six weeks’ work?’ asked Joe, 
without stopping his hoe. 

“ ‘ No, not the first red cent; but father said he had better 
lose that than lose me, for if I stayed with him the whole six 


396 


AGNES ; OE, 


montlis, ’twonld be the death of me. You see be baintgot 
no heart, where the heart ought to be, is only a big stone * 
but what time do you expect him back ?’ . 

“ ‘ Not till night.’ 

“ ‘ Gone to see them folks down from the west V 

“‘Yes.’ 

So I thought, and if they like him as well as I do, 
precious glad they’ll be to see him !’ 

“ George stood awhile watching him, and then abruptly 
said : ‘ WoVe just finished our corn, and if John and me 
comes over and helps you with the five rows you’ve got yet 
to do, we three could do it in a jerk.’ 

“ ‘ Oh yes !’ exclaimed Joe, looking up with a brightening 
face, ‘ then they’d be done when he gets back.’ 

“ ‘ If it was only to have them done by the time he gets 
back, I’d let my hoe-handle all rot, and my hoe all rust, 
before I’d plant the first hill. It’s not for that I tell you, 
Joe Harny, it’s not for that.’ Again he watched Joe 
awhile, and then suddenly exclaimed : 

“‘Yes, we three could do it, and have a little time be- 
sides; say, Joe, if we help you, will you and Douce then 
come and play with us f 

“ ‘ Yes, yes,’ answered Joe, without a moment’s thought. 

“ ‘Dene,’ said the boys, bounding, hoe in hand, over the 
fence. When with hearty good-will they set about helping 
Joe, and when the sun was yet an hour high, the seven rows 
were planted. ‘ Hurrah ! hurrah !’ they shouted, throwing 
down their hoes, and pointing to the western sky, ‘ see, 
we’ve some time for fun before they^c back.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, and there’s a squirrel at father’s corn already,’ 
exclaimed John, ‘ and now for Douce.’ And away went 
boys and dog. 

“ They had killed one squirrel, and ‘ treed’ another near 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


397 


the road; Doucq was barking with all his might ; little Joe 
and the Bonners were shouting and clapping their hands, 
when who should come upon them but Mr. Crushford. The 
boys at once became silent, but Douce, unconscious of any 
harm, only barked the louder. 

“ ‘ Did you finish your stent V asked Mr. Crushford, stop- 
ping his horses. 

“ ‘ Yes, yes,’ exclaimed the Bonners, anxious to propitiate 
him for J oe’s sake, ‘ we helped him, and it’s all done.’ 

“ ‘ All done,’ he slowly repeated, while a smile they did 
not like, played round his features. 

“ ‘What did I say, Joe, about you being with them ere 
Bonners V Joe’s heart almost ceased to beat. Sure enough, 
what had he said ? — that the first time he caught J oe and 
Douce with the Bonners’ children, he would shoot Douce. 

“ Joe’s eyes wandered to his dog. He was still barking 
his short, quick bark, at the foot of the tree, every moment 
leaping up, as if nothing would delight him more than to 
be able to jump right into it. Oh, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t 
kill Douce. He didn’t always keep his promises ; indeed, 
so far as related to Joe, with the one exception, already 
mentioned, he didn’t keep any. Joe stooped and picked 
up his hat, which, in his wild chase after the squirrel, had 
fallen off. 

“ ‘ Leave them ere Bonners, and go after the cows,’ said 
Mr. Crushford, starting the team. 

“ ‘ But you won’t shoot Douce, you won’t,’ he cried, run- 
ning after him. 

“ ‘ I said I’d do it, and you don’t catch me telling a lie.’ 

“ ‘ Liars go to the lake of fire and brimstone,’ called out 
Mrs. Crushford. 

“ ‘ And so will somebody else,’ loudly replied George and 
John, no longer able to restrain their anger. 


398 


AGNES ; OE, 


‘‘ Joe could not keep the tears back ; sobbing and crying, 
he called Douce to him, determined not to let him out of 
his sight. He went for the cows ; Douce went with him ; 
he fed the pigs, Douce was still at his side ; he went into 
the house for the milk-pails, and when he came out he 
missed him. He whistled, he called, but no Douce answered. 
Mr. Crushford came, and sternly ordered him, if he knew 
what was good for him, to go to milking. 

“ ‘ But you won’t hurt Douce ?’ he entreatingly asked. 

“‘You 4on’t catch me telling a lie, I can tell you that.’ 

“Joe sat down his pails : ‘ If you touch Douce, I won’t 
stay with you another day. I’ll— I’ll’ — Poor Joe did not 
know what he would do. 

“ ‘ You’ll tear a board off the hog-pen, won’t you ?’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Mr. Crushford, don’t kHl him, don’t !’ he entreat- 
ingly cried, ‘ he’s the only friend I’ve got.’ 

“ ‘ Well, well,’ he said, shaking him off, ‘go about your 
milking, and don’t be catched with them ere Bonners 
again.’ 

“ Joe felt he had not pleaded in vain ; with tears of grati- 
tude dimming his eyes, he took up the pails and went into 
the yard. He thought, the further to propitiate Mr. 
Crushford, he would milk five, instead of his usual number, 
four. He had carried the pails, full, up to the house once, 
and was going up with them again, when he heard the sharp 
report of a rifle. The pails fell from his hands ; uttering 
a piercing shriek, he rushed into the barn, whence he 
thought the sound proceeded. It was, by this time, so 
dark, that he could not see, with distinctness, any object; 
again he whistled and called, but, as before, no Douce came. 
Hurrying out, he met Mr. Crushford. 

“ ‘ Why didn’t you carry that ere milk to the house V he 
asked. 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


390 


“ ‘ Because I beard the report of a rifle, and I was afraid 
you bad shot Douce,’ be boldly answered. 

“ ‘ Take that, and that, and that, for your fears,’ said Mr. 
Crusbford, soundly boxing bis ears. ‘ Now, carry them are 
pails to tbe bouse, and don’t let me catcb you screaming 
round these ere premises again.’ 

“ With a stinging sense of injury goading bis heart, he 
took up the pails and carried them into tbe bouse. Mrs. 
Crusbford gave him a little kettle of warm milk to carry to 
tbe calf in tbe cow-shed. At tbe door be stumbled over 
something ; it was tbe bleeding, inanimate form of Douce ! 
His brain whirled, and a frenzied feeling of anger burned in 
bis heart ; rushing back to tbe bouse, be burst in and, con- 
fronting Mr. and Mrs. Crusbford, wildly exclaimed : 

“ ‘You’ve killed him ! you’ve killed him !’ 

“ ‘ I bavn’t done nothing else. T said I’d do it, and I’ve 
done it. You don’t catcb me telling a lie,’ replied Mr. 
Crusbford, with provoking calmness. 

“ Poor Joe ! He felt how weak and powerless be was to 
wreak vengeance on them ; for a moment be stood before 
them trembling with rage, then be rushed to his room. 
His first impulse was to fall on bis knees and curse them ; 
but something held him back. ‘ Leave them. Go back to 
tbe Connors. Don’t stay another day with them,’ seemed 
whispered in bis ears. ‘I will-^I will!’ be exclaimed, 
rising. ‘ I’ll go to them. I’ll tell them all.’ 

“Tills resolution so softened bis anguish, that tears forced 
their way to bis eyes.. 

“ ‘ They are gone. They are all gone, now,’ be sobbed, 
wringing bis bands. Hour after hour, he sat on the side ol 
tbe bed, too miserable even to think. ‘ Alone, — all alone ! 
he kept repeating to himself, — ‘ alone, alone.’ 

“ At length, rising, be went to bis father’s old trunk 


400 


AGNES ; OE, 


bowed Ms bead upon it, and again tears came to bis relief. 
They calmed bis sorrow and enabled Mm to tbinb. Yes, be 
would go away ; be would not stay with them ; that trunk, 
as mucb as be loved it, for having been bis father’s, be 
would have to leave behind ; but bis beads — bis father’s 
beads — and the little tear-stained prayer-book, that bad been 
bis mother’s, and the Catechism that Father John bad given 
him — these he would take with him. Lifting the lid of the 
trunk, be removed them to bis pocket, and again seating 
himself on the side of the bed, listened till the clock struck 
two. Softly be descended the stairs, but the door bad been 
fastened; carefully retracing his steps, be looked out and 
saw, from the window, he could safely reach the low roof 
of the wood-house, and from that slide down to the ground. 
The next instant be was out under the stffr-lit dome of 
heaven. Hastening to the cow-shed, he threw his arms 
round the dead Douce’s neck. ‘Poor, poor Douce,’ he 
cried, ‘ never will you come to me again ; never lay your 
great head on my knees ; and with your mild brown eyes 
look up sor'Sowfully int(^my face and try to say something 
Comforting to me — never, Douce, never ! Oh ! why did I 
take you with me ? Why didn’t I leave you to the Con- 
nors ? Oh, Douce, Douce ! why didn’t I ?’ 

“ Once more he hugged the faithful creature’s head to his 
heart; once more pressed his lips to his forehead; then, 
hastily rising, darted out of the yard, gained the road, and 
without a backward glance, was on his way to the faithful 
Connors. But he was not going to hang on to their skirts. 
This dreadful expression of Mr. Reed’s constantly haunted 
him. No, no, he would not go to trouble them ; he only 
wanted to reach his parents’ graves, and, lying down in the 
little hollow between them, forget his sorrows, his loneliness. 
It was but seven months since he and Douce started out 


VIEWS OF CATHOLIC&Y. 


401 


into the world, and now Douce was dead, and he was flying 
from it. He thought of Father John, and the gocd advice 
he had given him ; he had been patient, industrious, and 
had never forgotten to say his prayers ; but he hated the 
Crushfords, he couldn’t help it ; hadn’t they killed Douce ? 
Father John had told him he must forgive every injury, and 
he had told him there wasn’t any thing in the wide world 
.that he couldn’t forgive; but he didn’t know the Crushfords 
then ; he couldn’t, and, what is more, he wouldn’t forgive 
them. He would hate them as long as he lived, if he lived 
to be a hundred. Angry feelings burned in his heart. He 
was five miles on his way by the time the stars began to 
. fade, and an ambient light streaked along the eastern sky. Per- 
haps Mr. Cru|hford would miss him, and hasten after him ; 
this gave fresh energy to his steps. He had nineteen miles 
yet to go, and his head pained him so, that at times he 
feared he would have to stop ; coming to a creek, he stooped, 
drank, and freely bathed .his temples ; this relieved him, 
and enabled him to proceed with greater ease. At length 
it ached so bad that he was obliged to sit down ; remem- 
bering his morning prayers, he took out his rosary, said 
them, and rising, resumed his toilsome way. As he walked 
along, he thought of the day he came with Mr. Crushford 
the same road ; how Douce jumped up by the side of the 
wagon every time he whistled ; how sad he felt ; and, how 
bravely he forced the sadness back. No wonder his heart 
sank within him ; from that day to this, he had not known 
one hour’s happiness. Oh ! what would Mr. and Mrs. 
Connor, Maurice, Bridget, — what would they all say, when 
they should hear Douce was dead — had been shot 1 
But his head grew so heavy that he could think no more ; 
pressing his hands to his throbbing temples, he hurried on. 
At length, the terrible fear that Mr. Crushford would hasten 


402 


AGNES ; OE, 


after and overtake him, so wrought upon him, that lie left 
the road and went through the fields. Again was he obli- 
ged to sit down ; a darkness came over him, and the pain 
became so severe, that he began to fear it might be death. 
Death ! could he die with his soul possessed with wild anger 
and hatred, and determined never to forgive ? ‘ Sweet JeSus, 

pity a poor orphan,’ he sobbed. ‘ Holy Mary, pray that I 
may have power to say I forgive.’ He bowed his head, and 
it seemed a heavenly ray pierced the darkness of his brain ; 
his temples throbbed less wildly; in a low voice he mur- 
mured : ‘ Thank you, thank you, blessed Mother ; I do, yes, 
I do forgive,’ and devoutly kissing his crucifix, he once more 
arose and walked on. Coming out on the road, he found 
himself in the village of Stanton, only seven ^liles from Mr. 
Connor’s. A kind-looking elderly gentleman, in a one- 
horse wagon, drove up.; if he could only ride a part of the 
seven miles, it would help him so much. He raised his 
hand, and the gentleman at once stopped. 

“ ‘ Are you going in the direction of Stockton Mills ?’ 

“ ‘ I am going direct to within one mile of them.’ 

“ ‘ Will you please let me ride with you ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, my boy, jump right in.’ 

“ With difficulty he lifted himself into the wagon. The 
gentleman asked him several questions, as to what was his 
name, how old he was, and where did he live, and then was 
silent the rest of the ride. When he got out, he could 
hardljr walk ; his head ached worse than ever, he would 
have to sit down ; but no, he would wait. till he got to the 
great elm, from there he could see Mr. Connor’s house, and 
he knew the sight would do him good. When he reached 
the elm, he thought he would go a little farther, to the 
large moss-covered stone, and then he could see the spot so 
dear to him. He reached it, but now he could not stop>- 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


403 


great tears rolled down his cheeks ; with eager, trembling 
hands he opened the gate, passed through the yard, the 
meadow. The Connors were all there, reading the Litany 
for the dead. Unmindful of their presence, he hurried on, 
and with a wild cry of anguish, sank down in the little hol- 
low between the graves. 

“‘Little Joe Harny! Joe Hamy !’ they all exclaimed; 
but a darkness came over him, his desolation, his loneliness 
were all for the time forgotten. When he returned to con- 
sciousness, he found himself on the bed in the little bed- 
room ; Mrs. Connor was bending over him sobbing and 
crying.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t cry, Ellen,’ said the kind voice of Mr. Connor, 
‘ we thought it was all for the best to let him go.’ 

“ ‘ No, James, I didn’t, I feared it. Feared it when he 
didn’t come to ns Easter — feared it when they told Maurice 
when he went ta see him, that he was off to some of then 
relations.’ * , 

“ So it seemed Maurice had been to see him, and the 
Crushfords had never let him know it. He started up, and 
throwing his arms round Mrs. Connor’s neck, sobbed : 

“ ‘ They’ve killed Douce ! they’ve killed him !’ 

“ ‘ Killed him, child, killed him ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, killed him.’ 

“ Mr. Connor uttered an angry imprecation against them. 
Mrs. Connor, drawing the orphan closer to her heart, ex- 
claimed : 

“ ‘ And pray God they haven’t killed you too !’ 

“ Again the room grcAv dark, and, falling back on his pil- 
low, he heard and saw no more.” 

As Agnes concluded the chapter, the little Swiss clock 
on the mantel struck three. 


404 


AGNES ; OE, 


“ The very hour I prornised to be with Edith Carter !” 
she exclaimed. Arising, she hastily slipped the manuscript 
into the drawer of her desk, and glanced out. It was a 
beautiful day, and, concluding not to wait for the carriage, 
she assumed her cloak and bonnet, and was soon on her 
way to her sick friend. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


405 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

On Christmas, the Church celebrates the birth of the 
Redeemer; on Easter, — the redemption accomplished, the 
handwriting of sin washed away in the precious blood of 
the Saviour, and heaven once more opened to man, — she 
celebrates His glorious resurrection from the dead, and His 
victory over the powers of darkness. 

We turn again to the Grahams. Joyously the sun ush- 
ered in this, to a Christian, day of reconciliation and for- 
giveness; and as, coming from her little oratory, Becky 
Starr paused before the window, and gazed up into the far 
stretching blue, she clasped her hands together, and strove 
to express in language the gratitude of her soul, but w^ords 
died on her lips, tears washed over her cheeks. She felt 
man’s debt had been paid at a great price — that the love 
of a Father girded him around. Oh, blessed, blessed Easter ! 
soul-calming, peace-giving Easter, how many holy memo- 
ries are enshrined in thee ! Who can pronounce the word 
Easter, without thinking of the little praying band in the 
house of John? of the holy women, with their precious 
ointments, hastening, before it was yet light, to the sepul- 
chre ; of the consternation that seized them when they 
found the great stone rolled back, and the body of their 
Lord not there ? of the grief of Magdalen, who, when the 
disciples had turned sorrowfully away, remained beside the 
empty sepulchre, the rays of the newly-risen sun playing on 
her tearful face, and the early breeze of the morning waft- 


406 


AGNES; OE, 


ing the golden locks back from her pale brow, as, with 
clasped hands, she gazed down on the clothes that had so 
lately wrapped the sacred limbs of her dear Lord, in the 
abandonment of her grief, not perceiving he stood near, 
till, in his own thrilling tones, he pronounced the name 
“ Mary of the wild, exultant feelings which filled her soul 
as she fell at his feet and said, “ Rabboni !” blaster ! She 
would have clasped those feet to her throbbing heart, and 
bathed them with her tears, but Jesus said : “ Do not touch 
me, for I have not yet ascended to my Father ; but go to 
my brethren, and^ say to them, I ascend to my Father and 
to your Father ; to my God and to your God.” Oh, love 
inconceivable ! not only is the fearful edict against man an- 
nulled, but Jesus becomes our brother, and we are raised 
to the dignity of children of God! “To my Father and 
to your Father ; to my God and to your God I” O Easter, 
Easter; full of holiest and most consoling memories to 
man ! well may the Church celebrate thee as the first and 
most solemn of her* festivals ; well may she lay aside her 
garments of mourning, and, putting on her garments of re- 
joicing, incense her altars, and send up glad, exultant 
“ hallelujahs” to the Lord — for Christ has risen, has tri- 
umphed over death and hell ; and heaven is once more 
opened to man 1 

A light step was heard along the passage, and the next 
instant, throwing open the door, Jane breathlessly said : 

“Becky, we are all ready, and grandfather and grand- 
mother say you are to ride with them.” 

“ And mother and father ?” 

“ Oh, aunt and uncle will ride with us. Walter goes with 
you too.” »■ S' 

Jane assisted her in putting on her shawl and bonnet, and 
they quickly descended to the parlor. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


407 


.Walter and Becky Starr, Mrs. Graham, grandfather and 
grandmother occupied the first carriage ; Mr. and Mrs. 
Starr, Jane, her two brothers, and Mr. Graham, the second. 

Becky seated herself beside her grandparents, and grasp- 
ing their hands, exclaimed : ^ 

“ Oh, grandfather and grandmother, what a blessed, bless- 
ed Easter is this ! If I live to be a century old, T shall 
never, never forget it.” Tears sprung to her eyes and rolled 
down her cheeks. 

“ Yes, child, yes,” said dear grandmother, in a tremulous 
voice. Grandfather made no reply, but, with his disen- 
gaged hand grasping his knee, his lips firmly compressed, 
sat gazing fixedly before him, stern and immovable as a 
rock. • 

Becky saw at a glance she was not to speak ; taking out 
her coral rosary, she ran her fingers over the beads till the 
carriage stopped before the gate of St. Mary’s Church. 
Her heart strangely fluttered, and a trembling seized her 
limbs. Walter tenderly lifted grandfather and grandmother 
out, then Mrs. Graham ; and, lastly, Becky herself. 

As she walked beside her grandparents to the church 
door, she could not help thinking of their first visit to the 
church on Christmas morning, and more than ever she felt 
the wonderful efiicacy of prayer. Of a proud, unyielding 
disposition — unyielding even to obstinacy — would the argu- 
ing of his children have ever converted grandfather ? No ! 
the very fact they were his children, would have added to 
the difficulties that stood in their way. How could he yield 
to those who owed a natural obedience to him? Their 
having passed beyond the years of parental authority, made 
no diflerence ; they were his children, and as such should ever 
respect his feelings. And in this the old man was right. 
’Tis a sad, sad sight to see children arraign their parents 


408 


AGNES ; OR, 


before the family tribunal for holding this or that belief. 
No good ever comes of it ; it may at first arise from a 
zealous, enthusiastic desire to see them enjoy the same light 
that they themselves enjoy. But at the first contradiction, 
how quietly the spirit of pric^ enters the heart and swell? 
it up with an insufferable arrogance; all tender, gentle 
recollections die away ; they look upon their parents with ill, 
uncharitable eyes, and their parents, seeing them turn so 
cold and tyrannical, hug their error all the closer to their 
hearts, and in very bitterness learn in their old age to hate 
the children that had once been the light and promise of 
home. No, no ; prayer is the all-powerful arguer in the 
family circle ; no dissension arises from it, no bitter feelings 
are engendered as it springs from a spirit of charity, so 
charity ever guides and dhects it. All harsh and angry 
feelings are subdued, and a gentleness and tenderness that 
is more powerful than the most burning eloqiienca quietly 
works its way, till the strongholds of obstinacy yield, and 
then we may gently lift the veil from their eyes and show 
them the great things God has done for ns, and is ready and 
willing to do for them. 

The little church was crowded ; not only were all the 
Catholics of the village and sun’ounding country present, 
but many Protestants, hearing of the approaching baptism, 
had gathered in, to witness the ceremony. Although their 
demeanor was grave and respectful, as is usually the case 
with American Protestants when attending Catholic places 
of worship, several among them looked upon the aged cou- 
ple’s conversion as the effect of dotage, forgetting it was in 
his old age God demanded of Abraham his great sacrifice, and 
because Abraham obeyed the Lord and was willing to offer 
up his only son, God blessed him, and declared that in his 
seed all the nations of the earth should be blessed. Of 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


409 


grandfather and grandmother in their old age God demanded 
the sacrifice of their will ; they offered it to him, and he 
blessed them with the ineffable gift of the true faith. 

Becky and Walter walked up with them to the railing ; 
the roses faded on Becky’s cheeks, and as she held her 
grandmother’s cap in her hand, she looked pale as the mar- 
ble statue of the Madonna standing on the right side of the 
altar. A holy calmness rested on the venerable counte- 
nances of her grandparents ; .and their answers were clear 
and distinct — no tremor, no feebleness of age was there ; it 
seemed new youth and vigor had been given them. As 
they bent their head^, and the waters of regeneration were 
poured over their silver locks, large tears rolled slowly down 
Becky’s cheeks, but not a muscle of her face relaxed ; with 
pale, immovable' features she stood there beside them, while 
many an audible sob arose from the kneeling congregation 
around. 

When grandfather and grandmother handed the light 
back to Father Williams, and received his parting in- 
junction : “ Go in peace, and the Lord be with you;” she 
gently tied on her grandmother’s cap, adjusted her shawl, 
which had partly fallen off her shoulders, and then walked 
back with them to their pew. Immediately the second 
Mass commenced, and till the time of the Communion she 
remained with her head bowed down upon her hands. At 
the first Mass she, her parents and brother, and uftcle’s 
family had approached the Sacred Table, but now she raised 
her head and glanced at the eager throngs with downcast 
eyes and reverent steps hastening to the heavenly banquet. 
A smile of love and gratitude lit up her thoughtful face. 
The prayers of her family had been heard ; their mourning 
was turned into joy ; her aged grandparents were gathered 
into the true fold, and now she remembered “the vow 
18 


410 


AGNES ; OR, 


which her lips had uttered, and her mouth had spoken in 
the day of her trouble with the Psalmist she exclaimed : 
“ Thou hast held me by my right hand : and by thy will 
thou hast conducted me, and with thy glory thou hast re- 
ceived me. For what have I in heaven ? and beside thee, 
what do I desire upon earth ? . . . Thou art the God of my 
heart, and the God that is my portion forever.”^ 

So rapt was she in her devotions, that when the con- 
gregation rose at the last Gospel, she remained kneeling, 
till Walter touched her on the shoulder ; then, with a calm, 
resolved countenance, upon which shone the peace and 
innocence of heaven, she arose. 

’Tvras evening ; the events of that day had been recorded 
in the angel’s book, and with hearts throbbing with the 
holiest feelings of gratitude and love, again the family were 
gathered in the sitting-room. Grandfather and grand- 
mother occupied their easy-chairs, Becky was seated beside 
them. Grandfather raised his eyes, and saw all his chil- 
dren around him. 

“ Mother,” he said, addressing his aged partner, “ they 
are all here — here with peace and happiness smiling upon 
them. No discord jars the meeting ; we are joined to them, 
they are joined to us ; one in faith, one in love, and one in 
gratitude and adoration to the good God who has safely 
brought us through our trouble.” Tears hung on his silver 
lashesj but dashing them away, and forcing himself to calm- 
ness, he asked : 

Children, would you like to hear how the change came 
about?” 

“ Yes, father,” they replied, “we would surely like to 
know when you first began to doubt the truth of your re- 
ligion.” 


* Psalm lYYii. 


TIE^S OF CATHOLICITY. 


411 


“ Say, rather,” he rejoined, “ when I first began to doubt 
the justice of my extreme dislike to yours — now happily 
ours, mother’s and mine — for one followed the other. You 
recollect, Becky, the first night of our last visit to Sarah’s, 
you wanted to sing ‘ Ave Maria stella ?’ ” 

“ Yes, grandfather.” 

“ And I would not hear it ?” 

“You thought it was time for you and grandmother to 
retire to your room.” 

“ I did, Becky, I did. In very bitterness of spirit, I 
thought so.” He paused a moment, and then resumed : 

“ Well, on reaching our room, mother sank on her knees 
by the bed ; but I seated myself on a chair near the smoul- 
dering fire, and, gazing on the dying embers, gave myself 
up to reflection. I thought of all the lessons of hatred to 
the Catholic religion, or Popery, as it is ignominiously 
termed, that were instilled into my mind from earliest mem- 
ory ; the terrible slanders against it ; the hostile spirit ever 
shown. against it, and it still going on and increasing; and 
it occurred to me that something more than human intelli- 
gence must help it along. My ^prejudice attributed this 
something to the machinations of the enemy of man, and 
at once a voice seemed to whisper in my ear, ‘ In like 
manner did the perverse and unbelieving Jews attribute the 
miracles of the Saviour to the power of the prince of dark- 
ness.’ I started, looked around me ; no one w'as near, and 
stirring up the fire, I listened for your hymn ; but no sound 
came to our room. I knew your tender regard for my feel- 
ings hindered your singing it ; and oh, my children ! my 
heart ached more than ever at the barrier between us. ‘ By 
their fruit ye shall know them' What piety, and patience, 
aud filial devotion had you- shown ! ‘ Thou shalt love the 

Lord thy God with thy whole heart, and all thy strength, 


412 


AGKES ; OR, 


and thy neighbor as thyself^ were the two commandments 
our Saviour gave ; and how faithfully you obeyed them ! 
Walter and Sarah, you need not speak ; I, your father, saw 
it and know it, and that night it all passed before me. But 
I could not give the credit of it to your religion ; it was 
your own inherent goodness. Poper}'^, that sum of all vil- 
lanies, had nothing to do with it. I arose, and walked up 
and down the room. I heard the murmur of your voices, 
and I knew you were engaged in evening prayer. The 
waters of bitterness washed over my soul, and covering my 
face with my hands, I groaned aloud. Mother arose from 
her knees, and tried to comfort me, but I sternly ordered 
her away. Oh, my children ! my children ! the more I saw 
your worth, the more I mourned your fatal perversion. 
What had I ever done, that so great an affliction should 
come upon me ? Why had not you been called away in 
your infancy and childhood, like the rest of our little 
ones? Tears, long strangers to my eyes, washed over 
my cheeks. In the calmness that followed, for the first 
time came up the question : ‘ Have you ever read any 
thing of their religion, but what its enemies have written?.’ 
Could my pure-minded, noble-hearted children remain so 
long in its communion if it was really the impure, defiled 
faith its enemies declare it to be ? I paced the room ; 
strange feelings came over me. Christ dwelt on earth 
eighteen centuries ago ; ’twas then he founded his Church, 
which he promised should last to the end of the world — 
that the Spirit of Truth should always be with it, yea, that 
even he, himself, should remain with it to the consumma- 
tion of time. And, moreover, he declared that the world 
which had hated and persecuted him, would hate and per- 
secute his Church — that it was a city set upon a mountain, 
a candle set in a candlestick to give light to all. paused 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


413 


in my walk, and sat down. Mother saw I was troubled in 
mind, and spoke kindly to me ; but I waved my hand for 
her to be silent, to disturb me not. What do the various 
denominations of Protestants say of the Catholic Church ? 
A part admit that it was the church Christ founded, and 
for four or five centuries it remained faithful ; but then that 
errors began to creep into it^ till at last it became wholly 
corrupted, an ally of the devil, helping to inthrall the souls 
of men. Could Christians believe that Christ’s Church 
would sink so low ? that God would forget his promise ? 
No! heaven and earth shall pass away, but God’s 
word never. If the Catholic Church was the church 
Christ founded, it could never have fallen into those 
shameful excesses which now disgrace it. Others, among 
them my own denomination, stoutly denied it. That thing 
of abomination to lift its head and pretend to be the depos- 
itary of God’s holy law 1 Perish the thought ! I wiped 
the glistening drops from my forehead, and tried to rest ; 
but other thoughts crowded fast upon me. At what time 
was Presbyterianism established? Sometime in the six- 
teenth century. When did Christ found his Church ? I start- 
ed at the question ; but the ready reply came : only in the 
human heart, not openly did it exist, till Calvin was chosen 
to raise it up from its hiding-place. Fears and doubts began 
to gather round me — from its hiding-place ! Could that 
Church, which for fifteen hundred years lay concealed in 
the heart, or was only dimly shadowed forth in some of 
the feeble, perishing sects that early rose and died, be the 
church Christ likened to a city set upon a hill, a candle 
set in a candlestick to give light to all ? A horrible truth 
flashed upon me ; my heart was steeled, and, like an im- 
movable statue, I sat in my chair. I saw all Protestantism 
rise up to falsify the words of the Saviour of the world 1 


414 


AGNES ; OE, 


No wonder, Becky, your cheek blanches, and your lip trem- 
bles ; it was awful to contemplate ; and yet it is incontro- 
vertible, that all those sects which declare the Catholic 
Church to be at first the Church of Christ, and accuse 
it afterwards of falling -into error, and those that say 
Christ’s Church lay buried for fifteen hundred years, 
till it was exhumed and resuscitated by Calvin and 
others — both equally falsify the words of Christ. On the 
one hand, his Church was not to fall into error, hut was 
to last pure and undefiled to the end of time; on the 
other, it was not to be hid, invisible, unknown to the world, 
but as a light on a mountain, seen from afar off. I paused ; 

I could go no farther. My God ! my God ! had I been 
following a shadow all my life? T wrung my hands, and 
again mother spoke : ‘ Father, rise from your sorrow, and 
turn to God.’ ‘Rebecca, leave me!’ I exclaimed. But 
she seized my hand, and a tear from her eye fell upon it. 

‘ Kneel with me, Zachary,’ she said. There was such a 
pleading tenderness in her tones, I could not resist them ; 
and with her hand clasped in mine, I knelt. Praying 
calmed the wild tumult of my soul, and when we arose, I 
told her all. She was greatly troubled in mind, but advised 
diligenRy searching the Scriptures, and comparing the ex- 
isting churches with them ; and if, after a careful search, 
we could find none agreeing with the sacred text — no trace 
of a revealed faith, to break free from Bible, Church, and 
all, and, in the recess of our hearts, still adore God, the Cre- 
ator and Ruler of the universe. The clock struck one, and 
we went to bed. The next day our search commenced ; 
carefully we read the Scriptures, chapter after chapter, and . 
day after day we recoursed to them again ; but the more 
we studied them, the more the doubts of the first night re- 
solved themselves into certainties' — the more unsettled we 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY 


415 


became in our faith. Finally, we closed the volume with 
the conviction that Protestants, who falsify one part, and 
deny another, cannot, in justice, found their existence on 
the Bible ; a.nd that the Catholics, after all, had more con- 
sistencies in their pretensions than any of them. Christ 
declared his Church should always exist — they date bach 
theirs to the apostles’ time ; that his should never err — 
they insist theirs is infallible ; that his should fill the whole 
earth — they triumphantly ask, in what part of the known 
world is the Catholic Church not found ?” 

Grandfather suddenly paused ; he could not go on ; the 
remembrance of the struggles through which they had 
passe^, even now shook his soul. Rising, he walked up 
and down the room, till becoming more calm, he reseated 
himself, and with a deep-drawn breath exclaimed : 

“ Thank God, my children, thank God, ’tis past — the fear- 
ful struggle is past.” 

“ But, father,” said Mrs. Starr, kindly, “ if recalling it 
gives you pain, we will not ask to hear it.” 

“No, Sarah, no, I wish my children to know all God’s 
great mercy to us.” Laying his hands on the arms of his 
chair, he resumed: 

“In saying the Catholic Church was more consistent 
with the Bible than the Protestant, I did not intend to im- 
ply that we upheld it ; so far from that, we turned loatli- 
ingly from it. Neither the Protestants nor Catholics had 
any claim to it. The Protestants, as I said before, had cut 
themselves off from it ; the Catholic, notwithstanding its 
vain boast of infallibility, we knew, or had been taught 
to believe we knew, was a sink of utter abominations, ancl 
consequently could not be the pure, undefiled Church 
of Christ. Where, then, was the Church that was placed 
upon a mountain to give light to all ? Clearly, there was 


416 


AGNES ; OR, 


no such church at all ; the Bible was void, and we turned 
from revealed faith, and church restraint to worship God 
according to the dictates of reason. Here we would have 
rested, but mother was not satisfied.* Carefully we pon- 
dered the subject in our minds, and found that reason 
offers no safe anchorage for the soul to rest upon. Would 
reason always keep one in the right ? in other words, would 
it always dictate an infallible course ? would it never be 
blinded by interest, slighted by caprice, or contemned by 
passion ? If reason is to be an unerring guide, what need 
of laws human any more than divine ? Why should not 
the reason of every man be allowed to govern him ? Why 
should one be obliged to submit to the laws framed by 
the reason 'of another? The answer is, because all men 
are not alike. Laws are framed to restrain the vicious, and 
protect the innocent ! Oh, my children, darker and darker 
grew our way. If reason is insufficient in temporal con- 
cerns, how could we trust our immortal welfare to its frail 
guidance ?• In breaking from a revealed faith, we thought it 
useless to pore over the mind-benumbing philosophers. We 
had read them in days gone past; among the children of 
our early friends, go where we would, we found their libra- 
ries stored with them. Philosophies, eh ! It seemed to 
mother and I, they might better be termed Babels of unbe- 
lief, for all about them is ‘ confusion worse confounded.’ I 
have read them till my head has ached, and then laid them 
down, with the conviction that their whole business is not 
to guide the inquiring mind into the channel of truth, but 
each to refute the mystified notions of the other, and lead 
the poor soul who trusts to their guidance further and fur- 
ther into the quagmire of doubt and uncertainty. No ; no , 
mother and I wanted nothing to do with them.” 

Grandfather rapped the carpet with his cane and ex- 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 41 7 

claimed, “.How proud a tyrant, how lofty a fool is man ! 
Because to his liliputian intellect all the wonderful works 
of the Creator cannot be made perfectly plain, he turns 
away, forgetting he cannot even understand himself. Who 
can unravel the mysteries of the human heart ? who unfold 
the workings of fhe brain ? who make known the wondrous 
inspirations of the soul ? Man is the greatest mystery to 
man ; unreasonable in his wants, ungrateful for his gifts, 
restless in all his undertakings, unsatisfied after all his re- 
searches.” 

Grandfather spoke with bitterness; the stern waves of 
memory washed over his soul. After a somewhat length- 
ened pause, he again exclaimed : 

“ But the philosophers, with all their cry of liberty, and 
disenthralling the human mind from slavery, and opening 
for it a brighter day, what have they ever done for man ? I 
shud4er to think of it ; but it was after the mind of France 
had become imbued with the poison of Voltaire and Rous- 
seau’s writings, when infidelity had become, I might say, 
the fashionable creed of the day, that the world was led 
to see the most horrible spectacle that ever appalled the 
human' heart. The most wanton barbarities, the most cruel 
butcheries were daily committed. France fioTved with 
the blood of her people ; the Christian religion was to be 
entirely annihilated, and the worship of a deity, whom they 
styled Reason, instituted in its place. The Sabbath was 
abolished, and bloodshed and riot became the order of the 
day. The feebleness of age, and the helplessness of child- 
hood pleaded in vain with these disciples of reason. In the 
fury of their madness, they insultingly boasted of ‘ dethron- 
ing the King of Heaven, as well as the monarchs of the 
earth !’ Oh, my children, and this was the boasted Utopia 
reason opened to man ! first, by denying a revealed faith, 
18 * 


418 


AGNES ; OEj 


still holding on to the belief of an over-ruling Provid^ence — 
next, to rejecting this belief, and casting aside all laws hu- 
man and divine, debasing the nobility of the soul, by in- 
spiring her with hatred to the living God, and making her 
bow down to the worship of demons. 

“ The sceptic may deny it was reason led to all this, but 
the very name of the new form of worship, ‘ Keason Wor- 
ship,’ proves it past a doubt. Sickened at heart, we turned 
from the deceitful paths of Infidelity, but where now should 
we go ? Darkness encompassed us around, but humbled 
and abashed at the weakness of man, when left to himself, 
^ve bowed down and offered up earnest, heartfelt prayer to 
the God ‘ who brought his children out of the land of Egypt 
and out of the house of bondage.’ The heavy clouds roll- 
ed back ; we felt a heavenly Father’s protection over us, and 
assured that, by faithful labor, we would yet find the Truth 
our souls thirsted after, we arose and again commenced our 
search. From the pages of history we saw the prophetic 
denunciations contained in the old Bible, in a fearful man- 
ner fulfilled — those powerful nations of antiquity, the As- 
syrians, Babylonians, Egyptians, and Carthaginians, utterly 
destroyed, leaving scarce a vestige behind. A few long- 
buried and lately exhumed relics, bleaching pyramids, hie- 
roglyphic columns, and rising mounds, are all that are left 
of them. Their exceeding pride and wickedness, the pro- 
phet tells us, excited the anger of the Lord ; his word went 
out against them, and in their power and might they with- 
ered and died away. 

“But while these proud nations were entirely swept from 
the face of the earth, a remnant of the Jews, a weak and 
feeble nation, but yet the chosen people' of God, were to 
last to the end of time, to be scattered over the whole earth ; 
and go where we will, the presence of the fallen descendants 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


419 


of Israel proves the truth of the prophecy. The proud 
nations under whose tyranny they once groaned, have pass- 
ed away, but they still remain. A Saviour was promised, 
the time of his birth, his poverty, and the price for which 
he would be delivered up to death — all were foretold. Je- 
sus came. He suffered and died, and now, seeing the pro- 
phesies of the old law fulfilled, could we doubt that He 
who unfolded the future to his faithful servants, would allow 
his own words to come to naught ? No ; he said he would 
leave a lasting, incorruptible Church. He said it ; it must 
be so, and with firm, trusting hearts we toiled on to find it. 

“ The Church which is Christ’s, must agree with the Bi- 
ble. We looked around and saw them all founding their 
belief on this sacred volume ; all professing to be the 
Church of Christ, and yet as we carefully examined each, 
we found they could not, in any way, substantiate their 
claim. Luther tells us in coming from the Catliolic Church 
he stood alone iu the world ; alone, ready to combat for the 
Lord, and in spite of all opposition establish his Church 
wherein every one might be saved. He speaks of the tri- 
als he sufi'ered in those days of his loneliness, those days 
in whieh he was the only man on earth to whom a knowl- 
edge of the Truth had been vouchsafed. This looked to 
us preposterous ; it looked horrid. What had the apos- 
tles done with that commission Christ gave them to teach 
all nations, if, after fifteen hundred years, Luther awakes to 
find himself the only one that has been taught ? Wc turn- 
ed from his insufferable pride and arrogance, and still cling- 
ing to the Bible, examined the claim of others. Calvin’s 
word we could not take : the church that was set upon 
a mountain to give light to all, could not be buried fi'-r fif- 
teen hundred years in the human heart, invisible to the 
great majority of mankind. The Light that came into the 


420 


AGNES ; OE, 


world to give light to all, could not have been so long hid 
to that world it came to enlighten. 

“With Calvinism, the Baptist, Methodist, and the 
churches which have, for the last two or three centuries, 
sprung up, are to be ranked. Their commissions came too 
late, and are too muffled in obscurity to be able to lay any 
just claim to that commission which the apostles received 
from Christ. They came without being sent, and passing 
them by, we turned to the Episcopal ; this professed to have 
always a visible being, to be able to trace itself back to 
the apostles’ time. But how ? Through what channel ? 
Through the Catholic Church, appropriating the name Cath- 
olic to itself. Yes, through that Church which it solemnly 
declares was, for eight hundred years and more, sunk in 
abominable idolatry and all manner of wickedness ! Was 
ever any thing so utterly inconsistent ? Can a whole body 
proceed from a corrupt one ? Can vice produce virtue ? Oh, 
my children ! after all oUr weary search, we found ourselves 
as far from truth as ever. Still we were not discouraged ; 
God’s word we could not doubt. He left a church, and 
though all was darkness around us, we felt sure He would 
yet lead us to it. Purposing to rest awhile, we laid aside 
our books and entered the sitting-room. It was Christmas 
Eve, and the conversation naturally turned on the approach- 
ing festival ; thoughts rushed upon us, and we had to re- 
turn to our room. Labor was before us, and we could not. 
rest. The next day we accompanied the family to church, 
and on our return, in the afternoon, we sent for Becky ; she 
came ; we told her how far we had got ; that we knew Christ 
had left a church, but with so many claiming to be that 
particular one, we were bewildered, and knew not which to 
, choose. In reply, she spoke to us of four marks which 
were to distinguish Christ’s Church from all others. It must 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


421 


be one in faith, in communion, and in worship ; it must he 
holy in doctrine and in practice ; it must he universal in 
time and in place, and it must be apostolic in being able 
to trace itself back to the apostles’ days. 

All this was reasonable to us. Without unity, how 
could it preserve pure its doctrine ? Without holiness, what 
would that doctrine be worth? Without universality of 
time and place, how could it prove itself the church that 
was to last throughout time and extend to all nations ? and 
without apostolicity, how could we know that it was the 
church Christ founded, and promised to be with to the 
consummation of time ? 

“ Becky left us, and with these four beacon lights we 
again commenced our search. In the Acts of the Apostles 
we found the Church opened to the Gentiles, and His disciples 
everywhere preaching Christ crucified, and counting it a 
happiness to suffer reproach for His name’s sake. Turning 
over the, page of history, we saw the infant church gradu- 
ally extending itself from country to country, weak and fee- 
ble in worldly importance, but strong and powerful to suffer 
and to triumph. In the mean time, while this was going 
on, other prophecies were being fulfilled. Christ predicted 
the temple of Jerusalem should be. so entirely destroyed 
that not one stone should be left upon another. The reign 
of Titus saw this accomplished to the exact words of the 
•Saviour. After suffering an unparalleled series of persecu- 
tions, Julian rose up in his power and might totally to ex- 
tinguish the Christian religion. J esus had said the ‘ Jewish 
temple should be destroyed;’ it was destroyed, and Julian, 
in his hatred to the Saviour, determined to rebuild it. He 
caused edicts to be put forth,, declaring his intentions; the 
Jews, elevated with the prospect of seeing their temple re 
stored to its ancient glory, remembering the aid granted tc 


422 


AGNES ; OE. 


Esdras by tbe Persian monarch, and contemning or forget- 
ting the words of Christ, flocked from all quarters to Jeru- 
salem. Their insolence ‘knew no bounds.’ Bah to the 
worshippers of a God, who died the death of the cross ! they 
should be swept from the face of the earth, and no longer 
left to contaminate, by their presence, the city of the Lord. 

“The flrst step towards rebuilding, was to remove the 
rubbish. This done, what followed ? Historians, of un- 
doubted veracity, hand down accounts of the visible inter- 
position of Providence to prevent the Deicide Jews accom- 
plishing their object. And how much soever the infidel 
may sneer at the mention of these miracles, the very fact 
that after a lapse of over tlmee hundred years, a poAverful 
monarch, with immense means at his command, a stranger 
to the Jews, unsolicited by them, of his own wdll, in the midst 
of a thousand cares, should lay them all aside, and purpose 
to renew the glory of the ancient faith, and having gone so 
far as to prepare the site for the new temple, be unable, with 
all his might, to proceed another step, proves the greatest 
miracle of all. The temple was utterly destroyed, another 
was not erected on its site, '"for their house was to be left 
desolate' 

“ Another prophecy of Christ’s ^vas, that the world would 
hate and persecute His Church as it hated and persecuted 
Him ! But that, notwithstanding the hatred and persecution 
it should meet with, having the divine promise to sustain it,' 
it would extend to all nations and last till the end of time. 
In defiance of this prophecy the whole world rose up to crush 
it out of existence. Christ was crucified ; His apostles mar- 
tyred ; His doctrines most grossly slandered ; the pride of 
the Pagan world rose up against it; it seemed * the very 
demons, fearful of losing the worship they had so long ex- 
acted, inspired their votaries with the most diabolical 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


423 


nitftliods of torture and persecution. But all to no purpose ; 
tlie seed that was put into the ground was to grow up and fill 
the whole earth. Paganism, with all its pride and insolence, 
was to bow before it ; quietly and surely the work went on, 
till the whole face of the world was changed and a new order ' 
of things introduced. Christ surely had left a Church; and 
could we longer disguise it from ourselves that the Catholic 
Church hated, persecuted, and prosperous, extending every- 
where, and its very triumph exciting the envy and malice 
of its enemies as Christ’s sanctity excited the envy and ma- 
lice of the Jews, is that Church ? 

“ During the course of our readings, when weary we sent 
for Becky ; she explained to ns the doctrine, forms, and cere- 
monies of the Catholic Church, and referred ns to works 
where we would find them all. more fully treated than she 
was capable of treating them. All the doub.ts cleared away, 
rejoicing in our new-found treasure, humble and 'penitent, 
we knocked for admittance into the true fold — into the 
true church. You remember our going to Mass on Christ- 
mas morning ?” 

‘‘Yes, dear father;” they all replied. 

“Well, now you see, children;” he exclaimed, reverently 
folding his hands, “ that was only continuing the work al- 
ready commenced ; and to-day the work is consummated — 
to-day our eyes have seen thy salvation, O Lord, and now 
thou mayest dismiss thy servants according to thy word in. 
peace.” 

His eyes were raised, and a light seemed to play round 
his venerable features. With one impulse they all knelt and 
begged the aged couple’s blessing ; it was given, but like 
Jacob blessing Joseph’s children, their right hand rested on 
Becky’s head. The clock struck ten, and evening prayers 
were said. 


424 


AGNES ; OR. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

On the sofa in the parlor sat Agnes Hilton, beside her 
was Walter Starr. He was of a tall, commanding form, 
with a fine intellectual countenance. Agnes had been lis- 
tening to -his animated account of the conversion of his 
grandparents, and although she smiled and tried to appear 
joyous, he could see in her changing countenance an unea- 
siness she vainly strove to hide. She glanced down on the 
diamond on her finger, the seal of her' betrothal, and the 
long silken lashes rested on her marble cheek. Walter fol- 
lowed the direction of her eye ; a vague fear crept into his 
heart ; he looked earnestly at her ; she raised her head and 
their eyes ^ met. < Placing his forefinger on the ring, in a 
hoarse voice he asked : 

“ Agnes, for the love of heaven, tell me, has that ring any 
thing to do with the change that has come over you ?” 

A moment’s reflection, and he would not have put the 
question so bluntly ; he would have waited, watched, and 
judged by appearances, but now it had gone forth, he could 
only wait to hear his doom. Agnes paused before answer- 
ing ; she did not dare to trust herself to speak ; tears hung 
heavy on her lashes ;"she could not force them back; could 
not control her feelings. 

“Oh, Walter, Walter!” she sobbed, leaning her head 
against his shoulder, “ I look to the day this ring points to, 
as the only sun of my life. You don’t know, you can’t tell, 
how more than ever I have learned to prize it.” 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


425 


The ashy hue left his cheek; hope once more beamed 
from his eyes. Folding his arms around her, he pressed her 
to his heart. 

“ Thank God ! thank God ! Oh, Agnes, that day has 
been a beacon light, urging me on, filling me with grand 
resolves, and giving me strength to battle with every oppos- 
ing difficulty. Blot it out, and my life would be a dreary 
blank.” 

“ Not more dreary, Walter, than mine.” She shuddered 
as she spoke. 

“ Dearest ; will you not then confide in me what troubles 
you ? I fain would drive the shadow from your brow, and 
bring the smiles back, to your cheek.” 

“ You can’t, you can’t,” she again'sobbed. 

“ Why, Agnes ; why can’t I ?” 

This, she had dreaded ; this had' made her shrink from 
the thought of meeting him. Under bright smiles and gay 
repartees, she had hoped to be able so completely to hide 
her sorrow, that he would not? dream of the eating canker 
within. Alas ! how had she succeeded ? The first time 
of their meeting, he had seen it all ; and now, beside her, 
in tender tones, was begging to know the cause of her hid- 
den grief. Could she tell him, risk meeting no sympathy 
from him, and seeing it all transferred to those her dark 
passions had taught to hate ? The very thought steeled her 
nerves to calmness. Taking out her pocket handkerchief, 
she wiped the tears away. A note fell ^from her pocket 
upon the carpet. 

Walter stooped, picked it up, and placed it in her lap. 

“ From Edith Carter,” she said, glancing at it, “ she is 
failing fiist.” 

Walter would have preferred confining the conversa- 
tion to herself ; but, finding her aflfections unchanged, he 


426 


AGNES ; OR, 


thought it indelicate and unmanly to urge farther confi- 
dence.” 

“ Do her physicians,” he asked, “ say nothing encour- 
aging ?” 

“ Ah, no ; they have long since ceased to hold out any 
prospect of her recovery; they say she is liable to drop 
away any moment.” 

“ How long since you saw her?” 

“ I was with her all day yesterday ; her feet are badly 
swollen ; that, you know, heralds in the closing scene.” 

He gravely bowed his head. 

“ Dear Edith, how I love her, and must she go ?” Her 
lip quivered, and a tear fell upon her hand. 

Walter gazed on her with a feeling of reverence. How 
gentle and loving, he thought, must that heart be which is 
thus moved by death. Others had loved Edith as well as 
Agnes ; but, did they mourn as she mourned ? Did their 
cheeks grow pale, and their lips forget to smile ? . Did their 
eyes lose their light and grow heavy and sad ? Oh, the 
depth and tenderness of that loving heart ! He passed his 
hand softly over the wavy folds of her hair. 

“ I am afraid,” said Agnes, taking the note from the en- 
velope, “ unless Becky soon comes home, she will not see 
Edith again.” 

“ Becky will return in the course of the next week.” 

“ Could she not come sooner ?” 

“ I fear not. Grandfather and grandmother are coming 
with her, and they are too feeble to leave uncle’s till the 
weather becomes more settled.” 

“ Then Edith and she will never again meet in this world. 
Before this day week, Edith will have passed to her re- 
ward.” 

“ Has she expressed a desire to see Becky ?” 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


427 


“ She speaks of her very often, and feels grateful for her kind 
letters, but I have not heard her say any thing about seeing 
her. Becky has been too piously employed this winter, for 
one like Edith to wish to call her from her scene of action.” 

“ I suppose she sees no visitors.” 

“Ah, no. I am with her almost every day. Father 
Joseph also calls on her frequently ; but she is too feeble to 
have many. I saw your mother there yesterday, but she 
did not go up to her room. With her usual consideration, 
she thought it would weary her.” 

Becky had told him it was Edith’s approaching death 
that, had so affected x\gnes; and now, as he gazed down 
on her face, so sorrowful in its matchless beauty, he felt 
how truly had his sister judged — how unjust had been his 
fears. 

Agnes, tenderly attached to her friends, loved them with 
a love that went beyond the tomb ; death could not blot 
them from her memory. Others, with a grave countenance, 
would refer to Edith’s early death; and, the next instant, 
dismissing .her from their minds, laugh and talk as 
'thoughtless as ever. Not so with Agnes. Day after day, 
she passed with her sick friend ; and when away from her, 
the remembrance of her sufferings chased the smiles from 
her face, and made her sorrowful and sad. How priceless 
the affections of such a one ! How wrongly the world 
judged ! How little it knew of the depth and tenderness of 
her loving heart ! Raising her hand to his lips, he fervently 
kissed it. 

“ Whej’e is there such another friend ?” he exclaimed, 
“ where such sympathy and love ? To think Edith’s suf- 
ferings should be your suffering too ! Oh, Agnes, pray 
God I may be worthy of you !” 

Paler and paler grew her cheek ; she strove to speak, but 


428 


AGNES ; OR, 


only her lips moved ; no sound came from them. Not for 
the world would she have Walter know the real cause of 
her sorrow ; but, still, she could not bear to hear him attri- 
bute it to sympathy for Edith ; alas ! she knew well how 
little Edith’s sickness had to do with it. She wished to tell 
him he had come to a wrong conclusion ; but the fear, if 
she did, he would want to know the real cause, her desire to 
hide it from him, and the thought that she was receiving 
credit for kindness she did not possess, was playing a false 
part, so powerfully wrought upon her already excited feel- 
ings, that she hid her face in the sofa pillows, and sobbed as 
if her heart would break. Walter spoke kindly and sooth- 
ingly, but his every word added to her shame and grief. 

“Oh, Walter, don’t call me good, and kind, and gentle ; 
I don’t deserve it !” she at last said. 

But he only thought that this was still another proof of 
her worth. Ti’ue merit always seeks to hide itself, and she 
shrank from even receiving praise from him. He arose and 
walked up and down the room ; he would not annoy her by 
any ill-timed words ; by-and-by, she would become more 
calm, and then he would introduce some pleasing topic ; he 
would congratulate her on having so beautiful an adopted 
brother ; he would speak of his glorious future. 

At length raising her head from the pillow, she wiped 
her swollen eyes and said, 

“ Walter, you must not mind these tears. I have been 
miserably weak this morning, and you have kindly borne 
with me ; but leave me now, leave me, J will see you 
again to-morrow.” 

“ Dearest, I cannot bear to leave you thus. Now that 
your tears are dried, come, tell me of little Mark. I know 
you must be proud of him, he is so beautiful.” He had 
again seated himself beside her, and taken her hand. It 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


429 


grew deadly cold in liis grasp, and her lips became firmly 
compressed. 

“ No, Walter,” she said, “ not to-day ; to-morrow I will see 
you again.” She walked to the mantel-piece, took from it a 
handsomely-worked watch-case, and placed it in his hands. 

“ There, Walter, is a trifle I made for you ; in it you 
will see your initials and mine.” With many fond words 
he accepted her present, and, reminding her he was to see 
her the next day, left. 

Immediately retiring to her room, she sank, weak and 
helpless, into her chair. That she had deceived him, 
caused him to think her better than she really was, made 
her more wretched than ever. Never had she harbored a 
thought of imposing on his trusting nature, yet it looked 
so much as if she had intentionally done it, that she almost 
despised herself. But no, she had not ! she would be in- 
capable of such meanness ; he had come to his conclusions 
from the natural kindness of his own heart — not from any 
thing she had said. Then she ought to- enlighten him, 
and not leave him laboring under a delusion. But if she 
ventured an explanation, he would not rest till he knew 
all, and then he would only look upon the outside matter 
of the fact, arid not consider the unkindness of her parents, 
and how successfully they had managed to make home 
hateful to her. As to Martha and Mark, the innocent 
cause of her trouble, she entertained for them the strongest 
feelings of dislike. Walter might pity them, and think her 
hard and unrelenting, and this, she felt she could not bear. 
No, no, she would never tell him a word ; she would die 
with the secret locked up in her own heart. 

She opened her drawer, and tried to finish some of her 
sketches, but the crayon fell powerless from her hand ; she 
drew her tapestry -frame to her, but the stitches all swam 


430 


AGISTES ; OE, 


before her eyes. Pushing it from her, she seated herself 
at the piano and tried to play, but her fingers ran care- 
lessly over the keys, evoking no pleasing sound. Bowing 
her head upon the instrument, she remained for some time 
buried in vexed and painful thought. Bitter waves washed 
over her soul ; pride, jealousy, and hatred tugged at her 
heart-strings. Dark temptations whispered in her ear, so 
dark that, fearful of remaining any longer under their spell, 
she arose, and, pressing her hands upon her hot brow, 
commenced walking up and down the room. Her eye 
rested on the manuscript on her table ; it had more than 
once calmed the tumult of her passions, and she would try 
it again. Drawing up an easy-chair, she seated herself, 
and turned to the ninth and last chapter : 

“For days little "Joe’s mind wandered over the sorrows 
of the last few months ; no kind word, no gentle ministra- 
tion of the faithful friends around him could woo him from 
the painful subject. Wildly he would start up, look star- 
ingly at them, and piteously call on his father and mother 
to save Douce, or Mr. Crushford would shoot him ; then 
falling back on the pillow's, he wmuld draw the bedclothes 
over his head and sob, ‘ alone, all alone in the world.’ 
A short time and he would be quiet, then the thought 
that Mr. Crushford was coming for him — had already 
come, and was going to tear him from his friends and 
carry him back to his hateful home, would fill him with 
such terror that he would throw himself into Mr. Connor’s 
arms, and, with beseeching earnestness, beg him to save 
him — not to let him go back. 

“ ‘ Oh, save me ! save me !’ he would scream, ^Don’t let 
him come near me. Don’t ! don’t ! He shot Douce, and 
he’d kill me. Oh, save me ! save me !’ 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITT. 


431 


“ In vain Mr. Connor assured him he was with friends, 
and no Mr. Crushford near ; the poor child would only 
shudder and cling closer to him. 

“At last his fever turned, the painful visions passed 
away, and sleep, refreshing sleep, revisited his weary eyes. 

“ It was a calm, peaceful morning ; the early breeze, laden 
with the perfume of sweetbrier, lilac, and rose, stole in 
through the open window ; the still sunshine lay on the 
whitewashed walls ; fluttering from the meadow to the 
orchard, and from the orchard back again to the meadow, 
the gay bobolinks filled the air with wild, exulting 
melody. Every thing spoke of peace and happiness, when 
little Joe opened his eyes and looked around him. Mrs. 
Connor came in with a light step, holding a pitcher in her 
hand ; glancing at the bed, she quickly laid it down, and 
hastening to him, exclaimed : 

“ ‘Praises to God ! little Joe, you know me.’ 

“ He reached out his emaciated hand, and a smile lit up 
his pale face. Bending over him, she smoothed the dark 
locks from his forehead, and tenderly kissed him ; he tried 
to speak — to thank her for being so good to him, but he 
was too weak ; all he could do was to press her hand, and 
look his thanks. Fearful of wearying him, she placed a 
cooling draught to his lips, and was turning away, when 
Fanny and Bernard, each carrying a handful of flowers, 
came in. 

“ ‘ Here, mother,’ they whispered, ‘ are some more lilacs 
and roses to put on the stand by Joe’s bed.’ They glanced 
at it as they spoke, and suddenly dropping their flowers, 
exclaimed : 

“‘Oh, mother! mother! Joe’s come to his mind, he 
knows us again.’ 

“ ‘ Come right away, children, come right away ; he isn’t 


432 


AGNES ; OE, 


able to be bothered with you now.’ She took them by 
the arms and forcibly led them from the room. 

“‘Here, Joe,’ she said, coming back and pouring some 
medicine from a vial into a teaspoon, ‘ the doctor left this 
for you.’ 

“ She gently raised his head on her arm. • 

“‘How long,’, he asked, handing her back the spoon, 

‘ since I got home ?’ 

“ ‘ To-day is Friday, and it will be a fortnight Sunday. 
There, now,’ she said, smoothing the light spread over him, 

‘ you must shut your eyes and go to sleep. I will soon be 
in again with some nice breakfast for you.’ 

“ He pressed his cheek against the pillow and tried to 
sleep, but sleep was impossible. He felt weak, wretchedly 
weak; and, more than ever, he longed for his gentle 
mother’s presence. When Mrs. Connor returned, bearing 
on a large bakedin, which served for a salver, his break- 
fast, the tears were forcing their way through his closed 
lids. 

“ ‘ What,’ she said, setting it down on the stand, and 
bending over him, ‘ you aren’t crying V 

“ ‘ Oh, Mrs. Connor,’ he sobbed, ‘ if I had only died, I 
should be with them now.’ 

“‘Come, come, Joe, you mustn’t be thinking of that. 
Here’s some nice toast and a good cup of tea ; let me help 
you up.’ 

“ She raised him to a sitting posture, arranged the pil- 
lows so he could lean back upon them, 'and, wiping with 
her apron the tears from his eyes, said : 

“ ‘ See, how much better you are than you were yesterday. 
Sure God has been very good to you, and you mustn’t repay 
him by turning against his holy will.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, my father and mother,’ he sobbed. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


433 


‘“They are in heaven,’ said Mrs. Connor, as Doctor 
Blessington came in. 

“ ‘ Bravo ! my little fellow, bravo !’ he exclaimed, coming 
up to the bed and taking one of Joe’s hands. ‘So you 
have conquered the fever ; but what, crying ? Come, come, 
none of that ; or I shall have to give you some more bitter 
medicine. Mrs. Connor, just let him have a taste of the 
stuff in that cup,’ he said, pointing to the bureau, ‘ or, no, 
we will let him have his breakfast first.’ 

“Joe looked up into the kind face of the physician. 

“ ‘ There now, that’s right, don’t cry any more, and diink 
this.’ He held the saucer to his lips. Joe drank it off, and 
then turned his face away. 

“‘No, none of that; here’s some nice toast, and you 
must tell us how you like it.’ 

“Joe saw it would be vain to refuse it, and after taking a 
few mouthfuls, the kind physician rearranged his pillows, 
and carefully laid him down. 

“ Weeks passed on, and once more he was able to visit 
the cemetery ; Fanny, Bernard, and Hughy were generally 
with him ; but their presence could not lift from his heart 
the weight of loneliness pressing upon it. His cheek was 
still pale, and a sad, weary look shone from his eyes. 
Throwing himself down in the little hollow between the 
loved graves, he would sit for hours, with his head resting 
on his hand, and his eyes fixed on vacancy. It could not 
be said he thought — thought was asleep ; a dreamy abstrac- 
tion was over him. Mrs. Connor coming out, he would 
passively take her hand, and follow her into the house; 
once there, sinking into a chair, he would fix his eyes on 
the floor ; or, bowing his head upon the table, close them to 
every object around. 

“ Something must bd done for him, or he would fade away 
19 


434 


AGNES ; OE, 


like Ms gentle motlier. They wanted counsel ; and to whom 
does the poor Catholic, in doubt and perplexity, go but 
to his priest. Yes, to Father John they would go ; he 
would tell them what to do. 

“ It was a bright sunny day after the wheat harvest, just 
such a day as we all can well remember, when the early 
flowers have passed away, and others, more gorgeous, lift 
their heads in proud beauty ; when the hills seem more 
silent, and a soft hazy wreath rises from them, and when the 
sky, as far bending as ever, whispers a something soothing 
and comforting to -the heart, that little Joe was to be taken 
to see the priest. 

“ ‘ Child,’ said Mr. Connor, tenderly lifting him from the 
graves upon which he had sunk, ‘ you are now going to see 
Father John.’ With the greatest indifference, he had heard 
the arrangements for the visit made ; but now, when he saw 
the horses standing by the gate, ready harnessed, a great 
flush swept over his face. 

“ ‘ To Father John’s ! and shall I see him again V he asked. 

‘“Yes, Joe, you shall see him again.’ 

“ He stood a moment lookingly fixedly at Mr. Connor, 
then falling against him, murmured : 

“ ‘ Father John ; dear, dear Father John.’ No more did 
he say ; and Nellie putting on him a new coat they had 
made for him, and Fanny bringing him a new hat, 
with a green ribbon round it, once more he started 
to see the good priest. How different his feelings to when 
he visited him before ! Then, although a lone orphan 
the gladness of childhood gathered around his heart. 
Now, after the first surprise, he sank back silent and 
abstracted, and neither felt nor expressed a desire to see his 
friend. All day long they rode on, and when they pressed 
him to partake of the luncheon they set before him, he 


VIWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


435 


turned his face from it, and gazed up at the light embroid- 
ery of clouds spread over the calm cerulean sky. At last 
the wagon stopped before Mrs. Donnell’s. Carefully they 
lifted him out, and, leaning on Mrs. Connor’s arm, he walked 
into the house. Great was the astonishment of the kind- 
hearted Mrs. Donnell expressed at the changed appearance 
of the orphan ; when she listened to the hardships he had 
suffered at the Crushfords, her cheeks burned with indigna- 
tion ; but when she heard how sick he had been, and how 
drooping since his sickness, her eyes softened, and she turn- 
ed and spoke kindly and soothingly to him ; but he made 
no reply ; crossing his arms upon the table, he laid his weary 
head upon them. 

“ ‘ That’s just the way he acts all the time,’ whispered 
'Mrs. Connor, ‘ the life, I fear, has been worked out of him. 
Oh ! it was wrong, it was wrong, for James and I to let him go.’ 

“ * But, sure, Mrs. Connor, you thought it was for his 
good.’ 

“ ‘ They said it was ; but I feared it.’ She sorrowfully 
shook her head. 

“ ‘ It’s no use to let your heart down, Mrs. Connor, you 
aren’t in any way to blame his own mother might have 
made the same mistake.’ 

“ ‘ True for you, Mrs. Donnell ; but still, if it had been 
Bernard instead of Joe that went to the Crushfords, and 
came home looking so worn, I wouldn’t feel so bad as I do 
to think it was the orphan intrusted to our care. God 
knows I wouldn’t !” 

“ She hastily wiped a tear from her eye, and glancing out 
saw Mr. Connor coming. 

“‘Joe, dear,’ she said, ‘put on your hat; James has 
come. And now, Mrs. Donnell, as you are sure Father John 
is at home, we’ll just step over to see him.’ 


436 


AGNES ; OR, 


“ ‘ He is at home, Mrs. Connor ; lie is just back from 
Littleton. I saw him myself when he rode past the 
door.’ 

“ As Mrs. Donnell said, Father John was at home. He 
looked still more worn than the year before, but kindly and 
affectionately received them. 

“ ‘ God bless you, my children ; God bless you !’ he fer- 
vently exclaimed. 

“ It was not Mr. Connor’s nature to go round a subject 
before commencing it, so sitting down, he at once told his 
errand. Kindly, Father John looked at little Joe ; he had 
shrunk to the window and was gazing out with a sad, 
fixed expression of countenance. 

“ In a kind, gentle voice he called him to him. 

“ ‘ Kneel down,. Joe,’ said Mr. Connor, as with a languid ' 
step he approached, ‘ and get his Reverence’s blessing.’ 

“Joe knelt, and when the hand of Father John was laid 
upon his head, he covered his face with his hands, and sobs 
convulsed his frame. 

“ ‘ Arise, my child, arise. And so you have been very 
sick, they tell me.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Father,’ he timidly replied, wiping away the 
t^ars. 

“ ‘ But you are better, now, and will soon be well again.’ 

“ ‘ I don’t know about that, Father,’ said Mr. Connor. 

“ ‘ Father John, James is only expressing his wishes.' 

“‘Well, Ellen, we all wish the same, but something be- 
sides wishing must now be done. He’s going like his own 
mother.’ 

“ ‘True for you, James. Ah, Father John, if you had 
feen his mother after his father’s death, your heart would 
liave ached. She strove to be resigned, and was resigned, 
>ut a weight pressed upon her heart till it pressed her into 


9 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 437 

the grave. All, poor thing ! may the Lord rest her soul ! ^ 
many’s the time she told me waking or sleeping that weight 
was there.’ 

“‘Joe surely is greatly changed,’ said Father John, look- 
ing at the pale orphan, ‘ and we must see what can be done 
for him.’ 

“ He leaned his forehead on his hand and remained for 
some time buried in thoughts Suddenly turning to Mr. 
Connor, he said : 

“ ‘ Did not Mr. Harny leave a small farm ? I believe you 
told me he did.’ 

‘ Yes, Father ; seventy-five acres.’ 

“ ‘ And what became of it ?’ 

“ ‘ When Mrs. Hariiy died, there was quite a little debt 
on it for the doctor’s bill, funeral expenses, and such like. 

I rented it to a Mr. Randall these two years. The rent has 
paid the debt, and now it is free.’ 

“ ‘ And the child’s clothes ?’ 

“ ‘ Oh, we found them. We thought it was the least we 
could do for Francis Harny’s son till his own little place 
would be out of debt. And, indeed. Father, aside from the 
farm, we thought he’d soon be able to get them by his own 
labor.’ 

“‘And so he has been,’ said Mrs. Connor, ‘ if the Crush 
fords were honest.’ 

“ ‘ What ! will they not pay him ?’ 

“ ‘Not the first ha’penny ; James went over to see him, 
but he declares he didn’t do enough to earn his board, and 
you see how he looks. The hard-hearted villain almost 
worked him into the grave.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, yes,’ said Father John, thoughtfully. 

“ ‘ I suppose if I was to go to law with him,’ said Mr. 
Connor, ‘ I could make him cash over, but the expense of 


9 


438 AGNES; OE, 

• the lawsuit would cost more tlian tlie little we could get, 
and that’s why the rascal’s so bold.’ 

“ ‘ Did you not tell me something about his having an- 
other guardian ?’ 

“ ‘Yes, Father ; a Mr. Reed.’ 

“ ‘ He would not object to any disposal of the property 
that would be for his ward’s benefit V 

“ ‘ Oh no, Father. He is brother-in-law to this Crushford, 
and is so ashamed of the way he used Joe, that he’ll not say 
the first word against any thing you propose. xHthough 
close-fisted at a bargain, he’s no such man. If Joe had 
been hired to him, he would have had enough to eat, and 
not been over-worked.’ 

“ ‘ You say the /arm is now unencumbered?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Father. Doctor Blessington’s bill — the doctor 
that carried him through the fever — will be considerably 
more than set-off by the cows I put out to double for him.’ 

“ ‘ Put out to double ?’ 

“ ‘Yes, Father. Mr. Randall took four ; they were left 
on the farm when Mr. Harny died ; and for the use of them 
for four years, he will return eight.’ 

“ ‘ When did he take them ?’ 

“ ‘ The next spring after Mr. Harny’s death — most a year 
and a half ago. In two years and a half more, Joe will have 
quite a dairy.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, yes ; now I see.’ Again he was buried in thought. 

“ ‘ I will tell you, Mr. Connor, what we must do,’ he said, 
rising up and placing his hand on Mr. Connor’s arm, ‘ we 
must place him to school — listen, do not interrupt me — his 
farm that you say is now unencumbered of debt, must be 
sold, and its price placed in some safe bank, where we can 
draw from it to pay up his educational expenses. How much 
will it bring per «,cre ?’ 


VIEWS OE CATHOLICITY. 


439 


‘ About twenty dollars.’ 

“Seventy-five acres, twenty dollars per acre, that will just 
amount to fifteen hundred dollars. He can be placed in 
Georgetown College for two hundred dollars a-year; and 
with the interest arising from his money, he will have. sufiS- 
cient to carry him through a regular course. 

“ ‘ But his clothes,’ said Mr. Connor, ‘ you forget them, 
Father.’ 

“ ‘ As to them, James, it will go hard with us, but we can 
find them, and when he’s through, if he feels delicate about 
it, sure, he can pay us.’ 

“ ‘ Just so, Mrs. Connor.’ 

“ ‘ Thay’ll not be very fine. Father !’ 

“ ‘ So much the better, he will not need them fine; if they 
are smooth and comfortable, that is all that will be neces- 
sary.’ 

“ ‘ But will he be able to stand the studying ?’ 

“ ‘ It’s the only thing, Mrs. Connor, that will save him. 
He is now, you see, sunk into almost a hopeless apathy. 
He must be removed from the scene of his sorrows, from 
the graves of his parents, and then the emulation of keep- 
ing up in his class, the society of those of his own age, the 
pleasant recreations — all will rouse him from this numbing 
lethargy.’ 

“ ‘ How soon. Father, do you think he ought to be 
sent ?’ 

“ ‘ The sooner the better. The vacations are just closed, 
and the new year commenced. I will write to-morrow to 
the president, and as soon as I get an answer I will let 
you know.’ 

“ ‘ You think there is no danger. Father ?’ 

“ ‘ Take my word for it, Mrs. Connor, it’s the best thing 
that can be done for him. At the end pf seven years he 


440 


AGNES ; OE, 


will have an education, that will be more to him than three 
farms.’ 

“A new era dawned on little Joe. A few weeks found 
him a student in Georgetown College, away from the loved 
graves, the Connors, and Father John, away from home 
and the scenes of his childhood. How embarrassed he felt 
when he found himself the magnet of some four hundred 
eyes, their owners whispering : ‘ And so that’s the orphan 
boy, that’s pining himself to death !’ 

“ Some way or other, every one seemed to know his his- 
tory. On the first night Avhen he was taken to the dormi- 
tory, a little boy, two or three years younger than himself, 
leaned over his narrow bed, and whispered : • 

‘“Joe Harny, I heard Father Paul say, you were to be in 
my class, and let me tell you, you will have to study to 
keep up ; Father Paul never takes an imperfect lesson.’ 

“ ‘ What will he do if I miss ?’ 

“ ‘ He will make you learn it over in a trice. And if you 
keep missing, I wmn’t say what he’ll do ; but there’s such 
things known as his sending boys to be ratanned for lazi- 
ness. So you will have no time for grieving, you will just 
have to rouse up and be somebody.’ 

“ ‘ And if I know them all the time ?’ 

“ ‘ Oh, he will like you, and think every thing of you. 
Father Paul loves smart boys.’ 

“ The kind Father had spoken very gently to him, and laid 
his hand so softly on his head — ^just like Father John — 
that Joe had been greatly impressed with him, and he de- 
termined if perfect lessons would gain his esteem, lie would 
surely have it; and with this resolution, he said a little 
prayer, closed his eyes and went to sleep. 

‘‘For the first three or four weeks his resolution, however, 
wavered ; he could not fix his thoughts on his studies ; 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


441 


many a time in the study hall, with an open book in his 
hand, they would wander back to the dear graves, and 
the morning he awoke from the fever! Why didn’t 
he die then ? Why was he left to be forever alone? lie 
was not like those around him ; they had friends, homes, 
every thing to make them happy ; — he had no home, no 
father or" mother, sister or brother; he was alone, all 
alone in the world. Only the recitation bell could arouse 
him from these painful memories, then starting up, with 
flushed cheeks and fluttering heart, he would repair to his 
class, conscious of having no lesson prepared. Father Paul 
on these occasions would look grave, but no reproachful 
word passed his lips. He pitied the poor orpha^ and 
chose rather by kindness than harshness to win him to ex- 
ertion. His plan proved eminently successful, and proved, 
too, that dear Father John was right. Desire to gain the 
approbation of his kind teacher, study, keeping up in class, 
and pleasant, cheerful association in a few months restored 
a healthy tone to his mind. 

“Seven years passed quickly away, and Joe, a young man, 
left college. Father John, dear, kind Father John, and the 
faithful Connors, received him with all joy. In a few weeks, 
throuofh Father John’s influence, he obtained a lucrative 
situation in one of the largest mercaiitile establishments in 

the city of A . Here he remained three years, annually 

visiting the Connors, and bringing little presents to each, 
member of the family. The clothing bill in due time was 
liquidated, wdth an interest that almost offended their gen- 
erous hearts. Every thing was prosperous with Joe. To 
see him now, no one could hardly have believed he was the 
same ragged, pale-faced boy, that a few years before ran 
away from the Crushfords. Health bloomed on his cheek, 
and hope beamed from his eye. On the third year of his 


442 


AGITES; OR, 

being with Mr. Evans, be paid bis usual visit' to tbe Con- 
nors. Maurice bad just married an amiable and intelligent 
girl, lately arrived from bis parents’ native place, and witli 
his bride was about emigrating to tbe West ; tbe locality 
be bad not yet determined upon, but spoke, favorably of 
Indiana. With pain Joe perceived a marked change in tbe 
bearing of tbe whole family toward him ; Fanny, who bad 
grown up a beautiful girl, was at borne on a visit from 
Stanton, where she had been learning tbe tailoring business. 
With her was a young gentleman whom, in an agitated 
manner, she introduced as Mr. Fleming, at least that was 
the name Joe understood it to be. She appeared greatly 
changed, no longer gay and cheerful as of old, but cold and 
repellent ; Mr^. Connor spoke kindly to her, but Fanny, 
gentle Fanny, sometimes forgot to bear her, and again an- 
swered in a sullen, disagreeable tone. Mr. Fleming bad 
but little to say, but that little proved him a person of 
education and refinement. It was very evident be felt 
quite a contempt for tbe plain, simple manners of tbe 
Connors, and it was also evident, that they, in return, 
looked on him in no favorable light. But if they disliked 
him, why treat Joe, who knew nothing of him, with such 
unkindness? Pained and chagrined, he determined tbe 
first time be should see Mrs. Connor alone, to learn from 
her what it all meant ; but tbe opportunity never came. Un- 
expectedly be received a letter, urging bis immediate 
return. 

“ Mr. Evans bad been taken suddenly and dangerously ill ; 
there was no time to lose : he hastened back, resolving, as 
soon as possible, to get leave of absence, and visit them 
again. Mr. Evans’s sickness proved fatal ; he died soon 
after Joe reached home ; and Mr. Gray, bis partner, con- 
cluded tp close up tbe affairs of tbe firm. Joe was kept 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


443 


very busy, but at last be got leisure to write ; it was to 
Bernard he directed his letter ; he begged him, by the 
memory of the past and all its endearing ties, frankly to tell 
him the cause of the seeming estrangement. With almost 
feverish anxiety he waited for an answer. In the mean 
time tlie business of liis late employer closed ; with a warm 
recommendation from ]\Ir. Gray, he went to fill the same 
situation in a large mercantile house in Rochester that he had 
filled in the firm of Evans and Gray. Time passed on, and 
he heard nothing from the Connors ; once established in his 
new place ho wrote to them again. No answ'er came to his 
letter ; and as soon as he could obtain leave of absence, 
which was not for several months, he went to see them. 
What was his astonishment to find them all gone ; their 
farm sold, and strangers in their place. He learned from 
the present owner, that Mr. Connor had moved to Ohio with 
Maurice, what part of Ohio he did not know ; having paid 
him all at once, and having no farther business with- him, he 
had taken no pains to learn the name of the place they would 
settle in ; that, a few weeks before they moved, Fanny had 
eloped with Mr. Fleming, and married him ; that this had 
greatly incensed her parents ; but why they should object to 
him as a son-in-law, as he seemed a perfect gentleman and 
far above them, he could not tell ; that, soon after their mar- 
riage, Mr. and Mrs. Fleming also moved West, but not to 
Ohio ; he believed it was to Illinois. This was all he could 
obtain from him or from any of the neighbors, except that 
among the latter some positively declared it was not to Ohio 
the Connors had removed, but to Indiana. He then hastened 

on to A , hoping, that, with Father John, they niight 

have left a letter for him ; but here greater sorrow, greater 
disappointment met him. Father John, the faithful, zealous, 
indefatigable Father John, was dead, and another priest was 


444 


AGNES ; OR, 


in his place. He Mndly received him, and looking' over his 
papers found none for him. If they had left a message, it 
must have been a verbal one. Bewildered, pained, and 
grieved, Joe went back to his employers. Let it not bo 
said because shame rarely mingles in the grief of childhood, 
because pride and vanity hold not over them their blighting 
power, that their grief is less bitter than the grief of after 
years. No! theirs is a wretchedness, an utter abandon- 
ment, a writhing anguish, that no after life can feel. In 
the strength of mature years w^e have faith, and hope, and 
strong resolves to battle with or against the storms of life ; not 
so in childhood ; the storms come, and, weak and helpless, like 
tender plants, they are beaten down. Then, if kind and 
pitying ones raise them up, and with soothing and gentle 
ministrations bind up their bleeding wounds, are, they ever 
forgotten? No! they are the white-wdnged angels of the 
past, and a halo, like the hnlo the old masters threw round 
their pictures, ever surrounds them. 

“ As before remarked, from the time, by the advice of 
kind Father John, he was placed in college, a new^ era 
dawned on him. No more away from the Church, no more 
so friendless and lone, his path lay among pleasant places ; 
’tis true here and there thorns appeared, but what path is 
w'holly free from them ? The fairest flow^ers have, beneath 
their leafy folds, many a sharp point. Conscientiously he 
strove to forward his employer’s interest ; his fidelity was 
well repaid : a few years found him raised to the dignity of 
partner ; a few more, married to the wealthy merchant’s onl) 
child. But, in all his prosperity, one cloud hung over hir> 
—the sudden disappearance' of the Connors. Had the> 
parted from him in auger ? Could they have imagined tha^ 
he had growm up proud and ungrateful— unmindful of the 
past ! He became morbidly sensitive on the subject ; foi 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


445 


years this part of his life was a closed leaf on the book of 
memory, and even now he could not have turned to it, but a 
father’s strong, imperative duty urged him on. With an 
aching heart he commenced the task ; as he progressed, 
heavier and heavier it grew. At times the pen has fallen 
powerless from his hand, and, bowing his head upon the 
desk, an unvoiced prayer has gone up that he might hear 
from them before he died. That praj^er has been answered ; 
ere the pages of this manuscript are brought to a close 
the mystery has been unveiled — he has heard from them. 
Nay, more, he has seen and conversed with Fanny — Fanny, 
whom he ever loved with the tender love of a brother ; and 
now how it pains him to find his only child turn from her 
— and why? because she is noor, and sorrows and afflictions 
have gathered around her. Is this the return ” 

Agnes was turning over a leaf when a servant came in 
and placed a note in her hand. It was from Mrs. Carter; 
hastily opening it, she read : 

“ Dear Agnes : 

“ After you left yesterday, Edith was much worse ; in 
the course of the night she became so low that we sent for 
Father Joseph. He came and administered to her the holy 
Viaticum with the last benediction. She revived towards 
morning, is easier now, and begs to see you. 

“ Afiectionately, 

“ Maria Carter.” 

There was but one more page of the manuscript, but 
she could not think of finishing it thpn. She slipped it into 
her desk; her carriage stood at the 'door; entering it, she 
was soon at Mr. Carter’s. 


4G 


AGNUS ; OR, 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Giving her cloak and bonnet in charge to Johana, she 
immediately ascended to Edith’s room. She found her 
lying propped up with pillows ; her golden hair, brushed 
from off her wan face, lay in gleaming folds upon them. 
Her large eyes looked larger than ever, and a weary, but 
hopeful expression shone from them. Extending a white, 
emaciated hand in a hoarse, hollow voice, she said : 

■ “ Last night, Agnes, I thought the messenger Pad come.” 

“ And you would have been rejoiced had it been so ?” 

“ Rejoiced ! Oh, Agnes, you do not know how impa- 
tient I feel ! Constantly is ringing in my ears these beau-, 
tiful words : ‘ Heaven is my true home,' and death is the 
path that leads to it. Oh, heavenly Jerusalem ! Oh, beau- 
tiful city of God ! when shall I arrive at thy sacred taber- 
nacles ?’ and' then, Agnes,” she said, still keeping hold of 
her hand, as Agnes seated herself on a chair at the bedside, 
“ comes the comforting answer : ‘ Take courage, my soul ; 
thy hour approaches ; thy miseries and sorrows will soon 
have an end. Thou art going to the nuptials of the Lamb : 
thoti art going to the land of the living and oh, Agnes, 
I long, oh, how I long to go !” 

A severe fit of coughing nearly exhausted her, but it dis- 
pelled not the eager, joyous look from her countenance 

* “ Devotions for the Sick .” — St Vincents Maniuil, p. 654 . 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


447 


As Agnes gazed upon lier, she thought, how different is her 
heart to mine ; hers all heaven, mine all earth ; in pain and 
suffering she is happy, in health and strength I am misera- 
ble. She speaks of her inward joy ; I hide my inward sor- 
row. ‘The world would pity her and envy me. 

“ The world would be blind to envy you, Agnes,” said 
Edith, setting her large blue eyes full upon her. Agnes 
started, and a deep flush spread over her face 

“ You have your sorrows, dear Agnes ; be not offended if 
I speak what I long have known.” With the keen percep- 
tion of sickness, Edith had read her friend’s thoughts. 

“ I have often wished,” she said, “ to speak of them, but 
I knew it would be disagreeable to you, therefore I ha'^ e 
been silent, but time is short with me now. I must be 
silent no longer.” 

“ Oh, Edith, Edith !” sobbed Agnes, laying her head down 
and burying her face in the pillows, “ then you know the 
cause of my sorrows ?” 

“I do.” She paused a moment, and impressively asked: 
“ Shall I tell you ? Shall I risk your displeasure?” 

“Ohj^dith, how could you risk it?” 

“ By simply telling you the truth, Agnes ; it is pride, 
deep, subtle pride that is wrecking your happiness, and 
making you, even here, have a foretaste of the miseries of 
those wretched spirits forever shut out from the presence 
of God. Instead of feeling a tender affection for little Mark, 
your adopted brother, you have allowed the demon of pride 
to harden your heart against him, for no other reason than 
because his poor sister is a menial in the house. Is it not 
so ?” 

Agnes groaned. From no other person, not even Becky 
Starr, would she have borne this, 'but to the dying girl be- 
fore her her anger was all powerless. 


448 


AGNES ; OE, 


“But let me tell you,” continued Edith, a slight flush, 
mantling her hollow cheek, “ this is a changing world ; 
those who to-day are up, to-morrow are cast down. Have 
him expelled your home ; give your parents no peace till 
they listen to your hardened counsel ; rejoice in your pow- 
er, and twenty years hence, in very bitterness, you may rue 
it — may see yourself cast down from the pinnacle of wealth, 
poor, shunned, despised, and the fatherless boy you hated 
for the poverty of his family, an honored member of so- 
ciety.” 

Agnes raised her head, and the haughty lines around 
her mouth once more disfigured the beauty of her face. 
“ Edith,” she said, “ you only look upon the poetry of thf 
affair.” 

“ Poetry, Agnes ; please tell me its prose.” 

In at times a freezing, and again a sobbing voice, Agnes 
poured into her ears the tale of her grievance. 

“It might have been pride,” she said, in conclusion, 
“ that prompted my dislike to the adoption at first, but if 
so, it has served to teach me how little dependence can be 
placed on the boasted love and tenderness of pareii^s. Pride 
has all left my heart now. I don’t care if they adopt the 
whole family ; I only know that I, their child, have been 
cast off like a toy they had tired of.” 

“ Pride left your heart ! Oh, Agnes, Agnes, pride is all 
there, with its foolish jealousies and inconsistent reasonings. 
IMow that you have told me what you are pleased to term 
its prose, look how very absurd it is. Here you have been 
all winter shutting yourself up in your own room, spreading 
an icy barrier between you and happiness, goading yourself 
with foolish fears and ridiculous comparisons — all because 
your parents have insisted on retaining in their service the 
sister of your adopted brother.” 


VIEWS OB CATHOLICITY. 44 9 

Agnes made no reply ; she felt Edith did not reahze her 
situation, and it would be useless for her to attempt to en- 
lighten her. One thing was very certain, she should not, 
while remembering what belonged to others, forget what be- 
longed to herself. She looked up, her eyes rested on a pic- 
ture, opposite to where she was sitting. It -was “ The Angel 
Appearing to the Shepherds.” With the delicacy of a 
Claude Lorraine, the artist had painted the soft moonlight 
gleaming over mount and vale ; in the distance the build- 
ings of Bethlehem, partially buried in the gloom of night ; 
the ambient sky, bending serenely down ; the still, quiet 
air of night, pervading the whole ; the gentle flock gathered 
together ; their faithful keepers resting on their crooks, and 
looking with wonder and awe upon the bright angel envel- 
oped in glory, bringing tidings of great joy to man. It was 
most skilfully executed, and she sat gazing upon it till all 
the harsher feelings of her nature were subdued ; she only 
thought of God’s great love to man ; the sublime strains of 
Handel’s Oratorio rang in her ears ; she longed to open 
Edith’s melodeon and give utterance to his glorious “ And 
lo ! the Angel,” but her friend was too feeble to bear it. 
Edith had been watching her countenance. 

“ You love that picture ?” she said. 

“ Yes, it is very beautiful.” 

“ To me it is more than beautiful. While gazing upon 
it, I often feel as if I would like to go back with Ihe angel, 
when his wonderful message is delivered. It seems I can 
hardly wait ; you think I am too low to bear music ; but no, 
I would like to have you sing, in the soft voice in which you 
sing for me, ‘Jerusalem, my happy home, how do I sigh for 
thee.’ My whole soul goes with every word of that.” 

Agnes seated herself before the instrument, and after a 
short prelude, in a low, sweet voice, sang the beautiful 


450 


AGNES 5 ORj 


lines. Edith clasped her hands, and a seraphic smde played 
round her features. 

“Thank you, Agnes,” she said, as Agnes again seated 
herself beside her.” 

“ Edith, shall I not change your pillows ? you look 
weary.” 

“ I do not care if you do.” 

She carefully removed them, shook them up, and laid 
the invalid so comfortably upon them, that she said : 

“ Now I think I may sleep. Do you stay with me to- 
night ?” 

“Yes, dearest, I will not leave you till morning.” 

With a grateful pressure of her hand, Edith closed her 
eyes. Soon she slept. The shadows of night gathered 
around them ; carefully leaving her side, she approached 
the window, and glanced out. The night was brilliantly 
illuminated ; world on world appeared before her. Her sick 
friend, Walter, little Mark, her grievances — all were forgot- 
ten. She only felt that those far-distant orbs, rolling on 
in the boundless sea of space, apeak to the soul of the vast 
omnipotence of God. We behold them as the scroll-work 
of his almighty power ; and as earth, since the bright morn 
of her creation, wheels on in her unseen course around the 
sun, so thjose millions of distant worlds have each their al- 
lotted path marked out to them — this much we know — but 
why they were created, how governed, and whether the 
residences of mortal or immortal beings, remains an insolv- 
able mystery to man. Dreadful are the penalties Eve en- 
tailed on her race by her insatiable desire for knowledge ; 
and yet, what hath this knowledge taught us but the piti- 
ful lesson, how little man may know ! We gaze on the 
star-gemmed night, till we can almost persuade ourselves 
we hear the hymnings of the distant worlds ; we bow down 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


451 


in blissful adoration, when presently awakes within us the 
desire to know what is not granted for man to know ; we 
rise up, we struggle and contend with our own weakness, 
and at last sink back utterly exhausted, with the withering 
sense of our own nothingness pressed heavily upon us. 
She bowed down, and laid her head on the window-sill : in 
presence of the wonderful works of the Creator, the scales 
fell from her eyes. No longer could the sophistry of pride 
shield her from the searching stings of remorse. How 
wretched had she made her home. Her mother, so gentle 
and loving, so attentive to her every want ; her father toil- 
ing and wearying himself out for her Martha faithfully 
fulfilling the duties of her station ; little Mark, so anxious 
to please — and she to make them all so wretched. Why 
should not her parents, if they loved Martha, be allowed to 
keep her ? Why should Mark, because his sister was em- 
ployed in the family, be sent home ? Does not God resist 
the proud, and give his grace to the humble ? Was not 
her very desire to hide her sorrow from Walter, proof con- 
vincing that deep, cruel pride was the cause of it? But 
how could she return to her parents’ love without too much 
compromising her dignity ? She was no longer a child, 
and they must not look upon her as one ; she was now a 
woman, with ail a woman’s sensitive feelings. Once inore 
she looked up ; the unnumbered hosts of heaven still shone 
down upon her ; she thought of the prodigal son in the 
Gospel ; “ I will arise and go to my father, and say. Father, 
I have sinned against heaven, and before thee ; I am not 
worthy to be called thy child.” Completely overcome, she 
buried her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud. 

“ Agnes !” Edith called her. 

She arose, and, turning to the bed, perceived the room 
had been lighted, but so absorbed had she been in her own 


452 


AGNES; OR, 


\ 


thouglits, that she had not heard any one come in or go 
out. Edith held the rosary in her hands, and pressed the 
crucifix to her heart. 

“ Agnes, you are not now offended at what I said this 
afternoon ?” 

“No, Edith, no. You only said the truth.” 

“ But you did not think so then. I saw it, and thought 
it useless to contend with you farther. I would do more, 
I would pray for you.” 

“ And have you been praying for me ?” 

“Yes, Agnes. You have been kind, very kind to me; 
and I thought the least I could do in return was to pray 
for you, and I have asked, nay, I have begged, of our bless- 
ed Mother to intercede that God might shed one ray upon 
your darkened soul. I knew one ray would be enough to 
let you see all its deformity.” 

“ And he has ; oh, Edith, he has !” 

“ Yes, I know it. When I saw you fall upon your knees, 
and raise your pale, tearful face, I felt my prayer had been 
heard.” 

Agnes bent over her, and kissed her brow. “ Then you 
were not sleeping when I left you ?” 

“ Yes, I slept, but soon awoke. And now tell me, Agnes, 
do^you not feel you have been unjust to your parents and 
to little Mark ?” 

Agnes was silent, but her head Avent down. 

“ And you will be reconciled to them ? Oh, Agnes, 
promise me this before I go.” 

In a low voice from the bowed head came the reply : 

“ Edith, like the prodigal, I will go to my father — and — 
and — and say — ” She could not go on ; tears choked her 
utterance. 

With her disengaged hand, Edith signed herself with the 


VIEWS OF CATnoLicmr. 


463 


sign of the cross, and again her lips moved in prayer. A 
calmness like the dew of heaven came 'over Agnes’s 
troubled soul ; the tears dried from her eyes, and, com- 
forted, she arose. Neither had yet spoken, when Johana 
came in, bearing a tray. Mrs.- Carter and Mrs. Murray 
followed her. 

“ Agnes,. I knew, would prefer having her supper in your 
room, darling,” said Mrs. Carter, as Johana placed the 
tray on the table. 

“Oh,, Mrs. Carter, do not ask me to eat now.” 

“ But you must, dear ; you look pale and exhausted, and 
need some refreshment.” 

“ Then give me a cup of tea, that will do.” 

Mrs. Murray handed it to her ; she drank it off, and 
hastily 'walked to the window. When she came back, 
Edith had partaken of her slight repast, Johana and the 
tray were gone. Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Murray sat beside 
the invalid, each buried in her own sad thoughts. Agnes 
was the first to speak. 

“ Edith, how do you feel now ?” 

“ Easier, thank Cod, than I have felt for months. Last 
night I suffered so much, and to-night every pain has left 
me.” After another brief silence, she looked at her mother 
and said : 

“ Mother, you and Bertha must get some rest ; Agnes 
will be with me.” 

“No, darling; we will not leave you.” 

“ But I wish to see Agnes alone.” 

Mrs. Carter looked up inquiringly. 

“ She is in sorrow, mother, and I would comfort her.” 

“We are all in sorrow, darling.” Her lips quivered and 
tears welled up to her eyes. 

“ But, you will go for a little while ?” 


454 


AGNES ; OR, 


“Yes, darling ; we will do any thing to please you.” 

“ If any change comes, J ohana is in the next room, and 
Agnes will at once send her to you.” 

With these foreboding words, mother and daughter left ^ 
the room. 

For some time Edith conversed with her friend, and it 
seemed, in her great desire to place before her the hideous- 
ness of pride, she rose triumphant above her weakness, and 
the hoarseness, which had for weeks troubled her, left, and 
she spoke in her own clear, musical voice. Agnes listened 
with wonder and awe; she felt the truth of her every word — 
felt, too, it was her last expiring effort to save her from im- 
pending ruin. She saw the messenger the angelic Edith 
longed so much for just at hand, ready to bear her away 
when her loving mission was accomplished. 

“And now,” she said, in conclusion, “I die happy. We 
soon part, but you will ever remember my words.” 

“ Oh, Edith ! Edith ! never will I forget them. Never 
forget this night.” 

“ And now you may again shake up my pillows. I feel 
I could sleep a little.” ^ 

Agnes shook them up, arranged them, and gently laid 
her on them. 

“ Please give me my crucifix.” She handed it to her. 

“ And please shade the lamp so that its light will fall on the 
Madonna and Child at the foot of my bed.” Agnes shaded 
it as desired. 

“ Any thing more, dear Edith ?” 

“ No ; but as I shall not see Becky Starr again, please 
tell her I thanked her for her prayers and beautiful letters, 
and rejoiced to hear of her grandparents’ conversion. And 
now sit down beside me ; I would rest a little.” 

Agnes seated herself, while, with a prayer upon her lips, 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


465 


the invalid sank into a light sleep. Agnes watched her 
countenance ; the peace and innocence of childhood were 
there. Hour after hour passed, but yet she slept on. Agnes 
bowed her head to listen to her breathing ; it was calra as 
an infant’s on its mother’s breast. Several times Bertha 
and Mrs. Carter came to the door, peeped in, and then 
noiselessly glided back — still the invalid slept on. The 
dark curtain of night was just lifted in the East when a 
change came over her countenance ; she started up. 

“ Agnes ! bring father, mother, Bertha, all — quick — the 
message has come.” 

She flew to Johana’s room. Mr. and Mrs. Carter, Mr. and 
Mrs. Murray hastened in. Agnes held her up, supported 
in her arms. She reached forth her hands. 

“ Bless you — bless you all !” Mr. Murray took Agnes’s 
place. Although at any moment this change had been ex- 
pected, it now, as death always does, took them by sur- 
prise. Pale and speechless they stood around her ; Agnes 
glided to the table, took up a prayer-book, and again ap- 
proached the bed. 

‘‘ Let us not forget our duty. Kneel with me,” she 
said. 

Mechanically they knelt ; she handed the open volume 
to Mr. Carter ; he took it and tried to read, but. his voice 
was gone. Handing it back, in a firm, clear voice she read 
aloud the prayers for the dying. Johana threw open the 
windows, and drew aside the thick, heavy curtains, so that 
the sufferer might breathe easier. Mr. Murray wiped the 
cold drops from her brow, and administered a potion, but 
the power of swallowing was gone, it gurgled in her throat ; 
partially turning her head, the liquid flowed out. Agnes 
raised her voice, so that the last sound of earth might be 
that of prayer, to the dying girl. Her struggles became 


456 


AGNES ; OR, 


less violent, a smile played round her features, and the 
spirit of Edith Carter was with its G-od. 

Agnes quietly turned a leaf, and commenced the beauti- 
ful prayers of the Church for a soul just departed. How 
•lovely the Catholic faith ! it strengthens and supports us in 
life ; it leaves us not in death, but ascends to the judgment- 
seat praying for mercy, and reminding the Saviour of the 
blood He has shed for repentant man. Carefully they laid 
the remains of Edith back against the pillows, and retired 
to another room while the sad office of draping her for the 
tomb was performed. Wearied and exhausted, Agnes saw 
her carriage drive up to the door ; promising to come and 
see them again in the course of the day, she descended the 
steps. As she seated herself and drew her cloak around 
her, Terence, standing at the carriage door, in a hesitating 
manner asked : 

“ Will you tell me. Miss Agnes, how your sick friend is 

“ Terence,” she said, in a kinder voice than she had ever 
before spoken to him, “ she is gone — ^gone to her God !” * 

“ Dead !” he exclaimed, wildly opening his eyes ; then, 
with a pious “ May the Lord have mercy on her soul !” 
turned and mounted the box. 

Leaning back against the cushions, she again thought of 
her sorrows, and the misery and wretchedness pride had 
thrown around her home. Leaving the death-bed of her 
friend, she felt how sinful this raising one’s self above the 
poor is in the sight of God. What mattered it now whe- 
ther Edith had been the flattered child of wealth or the 
toiling daughter of poverty ? Perhaps, from the populous 
city, the soul of one equally pure and good had ascended 
from some bare garret or damp cellar to her home of bliss. 
Their poverty, what mattered it now ? Death is the great 
leveller of all : as St. Liguori says, “ In the sepulchre we 


VIEWS OF CATnOLICITY. 


457 


cannot distinguish who has been servant and who master.” 
How foolish had she been, listening to pride ! How had she 
let its maxims harden her heart to every generous feeling! 
Weighed down and oppressed, she longed to throw herself 
in her parents’ arms and beg their* forgiveness. As the 
carriage stopped before her own door, her father hastily 
descended the* marble steps and assisted her out. 

“ How did you leave Edith ?” he kindly asked. 

She could not trust herself to speak there in the open 
street, and he thought it was her old obstinacy. With a 
suppressed groan, he led' her in. Once in the hall, and the 
door closed, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck, 
and, attempting the words of the prodigal, sobbed : ^ 

“ Father, father !” but she could say no more. 

“ What, dearest ?” he asked, drawing his arm around her, 
and supporting her weeping form. 

“ Forgive me, forgive me 1” she sobbed. “ I have sinned, 
I have sinned — ^forgive me.” 

. ‘‘ So far as you have sinned against me, I do, darling ; I 
freely forgive you.” 

He opened a door, and led her into one of the parlors ; 
seating her on the sofa, he tenderly removed her cloak and 
bonnet, and the long dark ringlets, released, fell over her 
pale face. 

“ And, Edith, darling ?” said her father, seating himself 
beside her. 

“I have just come from her deathbed.” 

He started', raised his eyes, and offered a prayer for the 
departed soul. After a somewhat lengthened pause, he said : 

“ Agnes, you, some time ago, found a nianuscript on your 
table ?” 

“ Yes, father, and much I wondered how it came there.” 

“ You have read the life of little Joe Harny ?” 

20 


458 


AGNES ; OK, 


“ Yes, father, I read to within the last page of the vol- 
ume ; then I was hurriedly called to see Edith.” 

“You pitied his sorrows, and felt the Connors were 
faithful to him ?” 

“Yes, father,” she said, curious to know to what his 
K^uestions would lead. 

In a tone of deep solemnity, he said : 

“ Agnes, see how heartless and ‘blind is pride — ^how un- 
just your dislike to Martha and Mark! Little Joe Hamy 
and your father are one and the same person.” 

“ You I father, you 1” she exclaimed. 

“Yes, Agnes.” 

“ And you never mentioned it — never spoke of it before.” 

“ No, Agnes, I never spoke of it. I cannot, even now, 
look back on the loneliness that oppressed my young 
heart, without feeling an unmanly weakness coming over 
me.” A great gravity rested on his face. 

“ But the Connors,” he exclaimed, starting up, “ they 
were faithful friends, you say ?” 

“ Yes, father, they were well tried, and not found 
wanting.” 

“ Well, what think you, when I tell you, the widow 
Clement is Mr. and Mrs. Connor’s daughter Fanny ?” 

Agnes covered her face, and groaned. 

“ I understood the name,” continued Mr. Hilton, “ to be 
Fleming, as I stated it in the manuscript ; a few months 
since, I learned my mistake.” 

“ Oh, father, is it possible ?” 

“ Yes, Agnes, it is possible, and Martha and Mark Cle- 
ment, are their grandchildren.” 

A step was heard along the hall, and Mr. Hilton could 
only say, “ Another time, and I will tell you all,” when 
the door opened, and a servant came in. 


W 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


459 


Agnes arose and retired, not to her own, but to her 
mother’s room. Mrs. Hilton was on her knees ; she did 
not hear the light step, but as Agnes knelt beside her, she 
looked up. A flush swept over her face ; opening her arms, 
she pressed to her heart her repentant child. Neither 
spoke, — theirs was an emotion too deep for words ; together 
they knelt, together ofiered up their prayers. Arising, 
Agnes clasped her mother ii> her arms, kissed her, and 
hastened to her room. In the passage, she unexpectedly 
met Martha. She suddenly stopped, looked at her for a 
nqoment, and reaching out her hand, said : 

Martha, your brother is my brother ; we will be 
friends.” 

Poor Martha ! her cheeks flushed and paled ; grasping 
the extended hand, in a thick, tremulous voice she replied : 

“ We will be friends, and though he is my brother, you 
will yet be proud of him. Oh, if father had lived, strangers 
would not be spurning his child.” 

I do not spurn him.” Her lips quivered, and tears ap- 
peared in the depths, of her eyes. 

“Oh, my fatlter!” groaned Martha, leaning her head 
against the wall. 

“ May we meet him and Edith in heaven !” 

“ Then Edith is gone ?” she said, starting. 

“Yes, she is gone.” 

“ May the Lord give rest to her soul ; she was so kind, 
so gentle ! She did not despise me because I was poor.” 

“ Neither do I.” There was a sorrow in Agnes’s voice, 
that touched Martha’s heart, and she regretted the way she 
had spoken. Agnes raised her eyes, stood a moment 
irresolute, then, throwing her arms around her, kissed her, 
and hastened to her room. ^ 


460 


AGNES ; OR, 


CHAPTER XXVL • 

The afternoon found Agnes again at the bouse of mourn- 
ing. As she entered the parlor, and glanced at the shrouded 
form, lying on the table in the centre of the room, a weak- 
ness came over her, her limbs trembled, and, leaning 
against the door, she paused, to gain strength and com- 
posure, to gaze once more on the face of the early dead. 
No gloomy crape veiled the pictures and furniture ; none 
of the usual insignia of bereavement marked the aspect of 
the room. .Flowers, beautiful fragrant flowers, lay pro- 
fusely scattered around ; on the snowy cushion, supporting 
the head of the pale sleeper, there they were, mingling in 
the golden curls ; on the breast, never more to be racked 
by pain ; round the slender fingers grasping a crucifix, on 
the white velvet pall spread over the slight form- — every- 
where, the hand of affection had profusely scattered these 
beautiful emblems of her own sweet life ; and at the head 
and feet burned two large tapers, emblematic of the faith 
and hope which guide the Christian through life, and sup- 
port him in death. She laid her hand on the marble brow, 
and the thrill of that touch went to her very heart ; sink-' 
ing on her knees, she bowed her head on her open palms, 
but no sobs, no tears came to her relief. Again she gazed 
on those calm, fixed features, beautiful even in death, and 
the words of the poet occurred to her : 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


461 


“ There is no death! What seems so is transition; 

This hfe of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian r 

Whose portals we call Death. 

* 4c * * * « 

In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 

Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution, 

She lives whom we call dead.” 

Again her head went down, and her lips moved in 
prayer. There, beside the cold remains of her friend, she 
resolved, with the help of heaven, to banish from her heart 
the bitter feeling of pride, and nourish, in its place, the vir- 
tue of humility. She arose, and bending over, kissed the 
crucifix in the rigid fingers ; raising her eyes, she saw Mar- 
tha oh the opposite side, arranging a cluster of heliotrope 
with a few snowy buds, and here and there a myrtle leaf. 
The flowers dropped from her hands, and a deep flush suf- 
fused her cheek; no change passed over Agnes’s counte- 
nance ; but reaching out her hand, ’twas clasped in Mai’tha’s. 
For a moment, she stood calm and collected ; then tears 
gushed to her eyes, and over the corpse of the gentle Edith 
the two girls wept together. 

As they were leaving the room, Agnes said : 

“ My carriage is here, Martha, you must ride with me.” 

“ Oh, no, no. Miss Agnes !” The timid and sensitive 
Martha shrank from accepting a favor, the granting of which 
might afterwards be repented. 

“ Will you, Martha, wait for me a few minutes till I see 
Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Murray ?” she asked. 

.Martha looked up surprised. “Certainly, if you wish 
me,” she replied. 

Agnes ascended the stairs. ^ Martha, again entering the 


462 


AGISTES; OE, 


parlor, knelt down beside the corpse and prayed till her 
return. 

As they met in the hall, Agnes grasped her hand, and 
kept a firm hold of it till they reached the carriage door. 

“ Step in,” she said, “ I will not take no for an answer ; 
you must ride with me.” 

Thus constrained, Martha sank reluctantly upon the soft 
cushions. Agnes, drawing her cloak around her, silently 
seated herself beside her ; not a word was spoken during the 
short ride home ; but Martha thought never had she seen a 
cold, proud look changed to so tender and sorrowful a glance. 
Mr. Hilton stood at the parlor window, as Agnes and Mar- 
tha alighted. A great joy shone from his eyes; hastily 
leaving the room, he repaired to his library, and, on bended 
knees, thanked God, the proud spirit of his child had been 
subdued, before she left her father’s home. Now he dared 
to look upon her future ; now he felt, in resigning her to 
another, he was not, thereby, endangering the happiness of 
both. 

The next day was 1>he day of the funeral. A long line of 
carriages followed the remains of Edith to the church, 
where a solemn Mass of requiem was chanted for her soul. 
After the Gospel, Father .Joseph ascended the pulpit, and 
gave as his text : “ Blessed are the dead who die in the 
Lord. From henceforth now, saith the Spirit, that they may 
rest from their labors.” * 

With breathless attention, she listened to his eloquent and 
affecting discourse. He dwelt on the piety and gentleness 
of her who had so early been called to her reward ; he spoke 
of the patience and meekness with which she had borne sor- 
row and affliction ; and he exhorted all so to live, that, like 


Apocalypse, xiv. 13. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 


463 


her, they might have their lamps trimmed and burning, 
ready when the Bridegroom cometli. His words sank 
deep in her heart, and strengthened the resolutions she had 
made. When the body of Edith was lowered into the 
grave, she leaned for support on her father’s arm, and he led 
her, pale and weeping, back to the carriage. 

On reaching home, little Mark followed her to her room ; 
with the touching kindness of childhood, he twined his lit- 
tle arms around her, and softly said : 

“ Miss Agnes, don’t cry any more. Edith has gone to 
God, and now she’ll see father.” 

She looked down on him, and, in a trembling voice, said • 

“ Mark, don’t call me Miss Agnes ; call me Sister Agnes.” 

Drawing him to her, she sealed her request with a kiss. 

“ Call you sister ! my new father and mother say you are 
my sistbr, but it has never seemed so to me.” 

« Well, let it seem that I am, from this day.” He did 
not speak, but drew back timidly, looked wonderingly into 
her face, then, with, the intuitive perception of childhood, 
feeling her heart was open to him, he rushed up and threw 
both arms around her neck. 

“Yes, yes ; you will be my sister, my dear, beautiful sis- 
ter. And you will love me just as much as sister Martha.” 

“Yes, Mark, just as much.” 

It was the evening of the third day after the funeral, 
that Agnes and her mother were seated with Mr. Hilton in 
his library. 

“ But, father,” said Agnes, “ you recollect you promised 
to tell me all !” 

“ Yes, Agnes, I did. You have frequently heard me re-' 
fer to my college days ; to Father Paul, Father Francis, and 
others, but you have never heard me mention Father John, 
or the Connors ?” * 


464 


AGNES ; OB, 


“No father, never.” 

“ Well, the reason was this ; I could not speak of Father 
John without *lhinking of the Connors; and, as to the Con- 
nors, having so suddenly lost sight of them, it alwa3’^s seem- 
ed to me, they went away laboring under the belief that I 
had grown up selfish and ungrateful. I had never, to my 
knowledge, given them any cause to believe so, but I was 
pained and grieved. Years passed ; I heard nothing of them ; 
and, like a criminal, who strives to bury in oblivion the 
memory of his fearful deeds, I shrank from ever mentioning 
their names; never even to Ellen, did I speak of them.” 

“And, Joseph ; to me you should not have been so reserved.” 

“But what was the use of clouding you with a sorrow 
you could not lighten ? All your kind words would have 
only made the longing to clear up the mysterj^ more intense, 
and I thought it best to bury it in my own heart. But 
when I saw our Agnes so proud and imperious, I changed 
my mind, and concluded I would write it down ; that, see- 
ing the sorrow and wrej-chedness that had gathered round 
her father, how poor and dependent on the kindness of 
others he had been, she might learn to curb her proud spirit, 
and know that, although surrounded by wealth and refine- 
ment, there had been a time in her father’s life, when, but 
for the faithful friendship of an humble farmer’s family, he 
would have sunk under the hardships of his lot. Only on 
that part of my life did I intend to dwell, and only on that 
part have I dwelt. With a heavy heart I commenced the 
task, but before it was finished I heard from them. Judge 
of my surprise, when Father Joseph came into my counting- 
room one morning, and told me the widow Clement was 
Fanny Connor ! I hastened to her, and begged to know 
why her family had so deserted me? And then, with tears 
in her eyes^she told me of her acquaintance with Mr. Cle- 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


465 


ment; how they objected to her marrying him ; and how, in 
utter defiance of their wishes, she had brought him home. 
In the midst of their vexed and irritated feelings, I made 
my visit ; they strove to give me a warm welcome, but the 
fear that she was about to elope with Mr. Clement, and their 
great dislike to his presence, prevented the reception being 
what they intended it should be ; and my so suddenly re- 
turning, they concluded I went back in anger. Bernard, 
soon after, wrote me an explanation of the whole affair ; re- 
ceiving no answer to his letter, they all came to the conclu- 
sion that, getting along pretty well in the world, I was glad 
of an excuse to shake them all oflf. Of course, my two let- 
ters they never ffeceived.” 

“ But why, father, should her parents object to Mr. 
Clement?” 

“ It was some time before I had courage to ask her the 
same question myself. After some confusion, she said she 
believed they thought him proud, that he was distant, a 
person of few words ; and when he did speak, had a way, 
unfortunately, not to attract people to him. In a moment 
I understood all. Agnes, he was proud — coldly, scathingly 
proud ; and you see how it ended.” 

“ But how came he, father, to choose one out of so un- 
pretending a family as the Connors ?” 

“ Fanny, in her youth, was strikingly beautiful. Away 
from her family, she would grace his home. He married 
her; they moved West; there he lost all his property, 
moved back again, and opened a school in Stanton. You 
know her history since then. I asked her if they ever 
strove by advertisements to learn the whereabouts of her 
parents, .^he said yes, often, but always without success. 
Poor, poor Fanny ! how fearfully had she been punished. 
I looked around the desolate room, and thought of her 
20 * 


466 


AGNES ; OE. 


father’s comfortable home ; I gazed on her pale, sorrowful 
face, and could hardly persuade myself she was the beauti- 
ful, merry-hearted girl I remembered as Fanny Connor. 
All my offers of getting them in easier circumstances, 
she firmly rejected ; after a long talk on the past, in my 
great desire to do something for her, I entreated to be al- 
lowed to ■ educate little Mark. The child had wrapped 
himself round my affections, and, having no son of my own, 
I even begged to adopt him. She at once consented to 
my first request, and, after a little hesitation, also to my 
second. Ellen here, afterwards ratified them; and now, 
Agnes, you see why I was so firm in retaining Martha in 
our service, at the same time that I adopted her brother.” 

The blood mantled Agnes’s cheeks, and tears filled her 
eyes. With the tender regard of a mother, to relieve her 
embarrassment, Mrs. Hilton hastily said : 

‘‘ But, Joseph, we must not forget to tell Agnes that' in 
your advertisements for the Connors you have been more 
fortunate than Mr. Clement.” 

“ Yes, oh yes. A few days ago, I received a letter from 
Bernard and Miles. Years ago, they all married — all but 
Nellie ; she died young.” 

“ Are old Mr. and Mrs. Connor living ?” she eagerly asked. 

“ Yes, they are still living, but quite feeble. Hugh lives 
on the home farm, and his wife is very kind and attentive 
to them. Bridget and Michael have large families, and live 
on farms adjoining their father’s. Bernard is a grain-mer- 
chant in St. Louis ; Miles became a physician, and is now 
a wholesale druggist in the same place.” 

“ And Maurice ?” 

“ He resides about forty miles from his father, on a large, 
well-improved farm. He has three children, two sons and 
a daughter. One of his soljs he called Francis, in memory 


VIEWS OP CATHOLICITY. 467 

of my father. Bernard has four children, and Miles two ; 
Hughy has none. Bernard and Miles, ere this, are on their 
way here.” 

“ Oh, shall I see them — see those who were so kind to 
my father ?” 

“Yes, Agnes; and Mrs. Clement and her family are 
going back with them. Her parents count the hours tilf 
they clasp to their hearts their long-lost and lately-found 
child.” 

“ Is Mark ’going too ?” 

“ No ; Hughy, having no children of his own, wishes to 
take him. The old spirit that once reminded me Miles was 
no brother of mine, still shines forth ; he says he thinks 
he has a greater claim to him than I, seeing he is his uncle. 
But Mrs. Clement is firm ; she asserts she ever remembered 
me with the same feelings of sisterly affection she did either 
of her brothers, and she will not go back of her word. If 
he wishes to adopt Ellen or Clara, he can.” 

“ Does Martha know of her uncles’ intended visit?” 

“ No ; I advised her mother to say nothing about it to 
her children for a few days longer. Oh, Agnes, Agnes, I 
could not bear to reveal to her how averse you were to 
having Martha in the house ; and I prayed God this happy 
change might take place before they arrived.” 

A look of deep pain passed over her countenance, and 
again her kind, mother came to her relief. 

“ But, Joseph, have you never heard from the Crush- 
fords ?” 

“Yes, Ellen, several times. Mr. Crushford still lives on 
the same farm ; he paid for it, but has never added an acre 
to it. One son is a shoemaker, the other early ran away 
from home, and the last heard from him he was on the sea ; 
the daughter married a shiftless man, and is very poor.” 


468 


AGNES ; OR, 


And the Bonners ?” 

“ Well, Mrs. Crushford had the mortification of living to 
see the day, that John Bonner owned a large, well-stocked 
farm of his own. George and Stephen are wealthy farmers. 
One of the daughters married a miller ; another a comfort-'^ 
able farmer ; Ruth an enterprising country merchant ; and 
the two younger Bonners emigrated West, and are there 
doing well. Aiid now, Agnes, I believe I have told you all. 
We will repair to your mother’s room, and, darling, you will 
play for your father his favorite air.” 

“Yes, father, but first let me send for Martha and 
Mark !” 

She touched the bell-rope as she spoke. They soon 
made their appearance, and, repairing to Mrs. Hilton’s room 
while Martha turned the leaves, Agnes played Stabat Mater* 
On the second stanza, Martha’s rich voice joined hers, and 
together they sang that hymn, so full of tender and plaintive 
melody. 


VIEWS OP CATHOLTCITT. 


469 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Martha Clement, through fear of grieving her mother 
and Alfred, had never mentioned to them Agnes’s coldness 
and aversion to herself and little Mark, and generous as she 
was sensitive, she now refrained telling them the change. 

“ She was cold and haughty to me at first,” she said, 
communing with herself, “ but how gentle and affectionate 
she has been since, and how much she loves Mark. No, 
no, I will not mention it; it would be ungrateful.” And so 
the widow and Alfred never knew but that Agnes’s close 
attention at the bedside of her sick friend, and her love of 
retirement, were the cause of their having seen so little of 
her the whole winter. Mrs. Clement, ’tis true, considered 
her naturally proud and distant ; but then, we all have our 
natural infirmities. Among the friends and acquaintances 
of the family, it was remarked what a change the death of 
Edith had wrought. Her parents knew better — kneysr 
whence it came. “"Every one that asketh, receiveth.”* 
Yes, they had asked for their child grace to rise above her 
besetting sin, and grace had been given her. They had ask- 
ed that light might be granted her to see the heinousness of 
pride ; and now, with the heavenly rays piercing the dark- 
ness of her soul, she shrank back in terror at the sight pre- 
sented, and, humbling herself in the sight of God, her con- 
* Matt., vii. 8. 


470 


AGNES ; OE, 


trite prayer went up for pardon and mercy. The prayers 
of Edith, her parents, and podr Martha had been heard ; 
her eyes were opened, she was converted. Great was the 
joy of Mr. Hilton at again meeting Bernard and Miles 
Connor. It seemed he would never weary speaking to 
them of the olden time, and, with true brotherly affection, 
they rejoiced in his prosperity. Bernard could not help 
remarking how strong a resemblance Agnes bore to hei 
grandmother ; she was not so pale and thin, but she had 
the same sorrowful, subdued expression of countenance. 

“ Indeed, Joe,” he said he had to call him by the old fa- 
miliar name, “ she seems the same person; the same rich 
dark hair, the same brow and eyes, the same soft, gentle 
voice. Oh, Joe, she brings your mother up plainly before 
me !” 

Mr. Hilton could, not speak ; he only pressed Bernard’s 
hands. 

Poor Mrs. Clement ! she could hardly wait the end of 
their visit, so anxious was she to see her parents. Every 
thing their affectionate hearts could suggest would be pleas- 
ing to her, and assure her of their forgiveness: they sent 
locks of their snowy hair, daguerreotypes, and dried flowers 
from Nellie’s grave. How she wept, how bitterly she wept, 
as she pressed these gifts to her heart ; every feeling of 
loneliness that had at times well-nigh bowed her to the grave 
rushed upon her. 

“Oh, my father, my mother !” she sobbed, “ take me back! 
take the wanderer home. Oh, the day I left you — left 
Nellie — left happiness 1” 

All were affected, all shed tears. Agnes was the first to 
regain her composur-e. Softly gliding up to the widow, 
she threw her arms around her, and spoke so kind and 
soothingly that the tears dried away, and ere she knew it. 


FIEWS OF CAraOLICITY. 


471 


slie found herself calmly conversino: with her brothers, ask- 
ing them numerous questions, and telling them how many 
times she and her husband had tried to find them. 

One day Mr. Hilton took them into Agnes’s room, and 
walking to the picture called “ The Cemetery of the Woods ; 
or, By-gone Days,” quietly pointed to it. Quickly over 
their faces came and went the color ; for several moments 
they stood silent before it. At last, turning to Bernard, 
Mrs. Clement said : 

“ Oh, Bernard ! our own, our early home !” 

“ Yes, Fanny, yes,” he huskily replied, wiping away a 
tear. 

“ Oh, Joe,” he exclaimed, grasping Mr. Hilton’s hand, 
“ this is more than I can bear. You loved us, and cherish- 
ed the past, while we thought you pi;oud and ungrateful.” 

“ Say no more of it. Say no more of it. Thank God, 
we have at last met !” 

“ Thank God ; thank God,” they fervently responded. 

And now,” said Mr. Hilton, “ I will tell you the history 
of that picture. But come, we will sit down. Ellen and 
Fanny — you look pale, Martha and Agnes too. How strong 
we men are ; joy and sorrow may rush tumultuous to our 
hearts, but, except a momentary change, like a light cloud 
flitting over the sky, leaving all as calm as before, our 
cheeks betray no outward sign o-f the inward struggle.” 

He wheeled up a couple of arm-chairs for Mrs. Hilton 
and the widow, and, pointing to the sofa for the others to 
be seated, drew up another chair for himself, and com- 
menced : 

“ Several years ago, business called me within twenty 
miles of Stockton, and I could not resist the desire to see 
once more the old place. One morning found me there 
searching for my home ; there was the land, but all else. 


472 


AGNES; OE, 


how changed ! The wood that lay between our house and 
yours was gone, and only fields of grain stretched on before 
me ; the little house in which I was born, and in which my 
father and mother died, not a trace of it was to be found. 
A large, awkward building, that seemed intended for any 
thing but beauty or convenience, stood on its site. With a 
heavy heart I went over to your place ; here I was more 
fortunate. The farmer to whom you sold, had made some 
slight improvements, but the whole had, notwithstanding, 
the old home look; the little cemetery was in no way changed. 
Taking out my portfolio, I seated myself on the great moss- 
covered stone a little this side of the house, and roughly 
sketched it all, leaving out the improvements, and making 
it just as it was when last I visited it. On my return to 
the city, I placed the drawing in the hands of a skilful artist. 
When it was first sent home I had it hung in the library, 
but it brought back the past too painfully. I could not 
write, or think, or study, while that picture, with all its as- 
sociations, was before me ; one longing, overpowering desire 
to unveil the mystery that hung around the estrangement 
was all I knew or felt. Agnes’s birthday was near at hand, 
and knowing how partial she was to rural scenes, I ordered 
it to be carried to her room. I told her when I had leisure 
I would tell her all — and now, Agnes, 1 have.” 

She smiled at the abruptness of his conclusion, and re- 
plied : 

“And riiore than ever shall I prize it, dear father.” 

“ Before we go back,” said Bernard, starting up, “ we, 
too, must visit the old place.” 

“ You need not now, at least, not with the hope of find- 
ing any of the old appearance around it. The farmer who 
owned it died ; it fell into other hands, and has been com- 
pletely changed. The old barns have been removed, and 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITY. 


473 


where the peach orchard was, now stand the new ones ; the 
house, the garden, the fences, the wood, every thing around 
it is totally changed.” 

“But the cemetery,” said Miles, “surely that has not 
been touched. You know when father sold the farm he re- 
served that, and had an iron fence built round it.” 

“Yes, I know it; so the farmer himself told me. But 
here is a bit of news that will do the heart of your mother 
and father good. You remember, Bernard, how rejoiced 
they were when they heard dear Father John was going 
to build a church in Haughton, only sixteen miles from 
them.” 

“ Yes, Joe, right well.” 

“ Well, what will they now say to hear there is a church 
in Stockton ?” 

“ In Stockton of Stockton Mills ?” 

“Yes, in Stockton of Stockton Mills, only one mile from 
the old place.” 

“Wonderful! wonderful! who would have thought it ?” 

“ Stockton has become a flourishing place. ‘ They have 
beside the two famous old flour-mills, several factories, an 
academy, a bank, several stores, a foundry ; a dep6t for the 
railroad goes through it, and every thing about it speaks 
the world — in fact, it is a metropolis in miniature. Well, 
when all these public buildings were going up, and in the 
time of laying the track for the railroad, a number of Irish 
families moved in, and of course you know the rest. Can 
an Irishman live without his church ? At first a poor little 
structure was put up ; that, as they got means, was replaced 
by another, and now the finest building of public worship 
in the place is St. Joseph’s Church.” 

“ Praises to Ood !” exclaimed Bernard, “ but this will 
be joyful news to father and mother.” 


474 


AGNES ; OR, 


“ But the cemetery,” said Miles, “ you have not told us 
of that” 

“ Well, when they built their church they could get no 
place near it for a cemetery ■; hearing of our little cemetery 
of the woods, they came, looked at it, liked the location, 
bought four acres adjoining it of the new proprietor ; our 
little cemetery merged into a large one, and there now re- 
pose the remains of many an active and pious Christian.” 

“ Wonderful ! wonderful !” exclaimed the brothers. A 
short pause followed, when Mr. Hilton said : 

“ So you see, as I told you, you would find none of its 
old looks around it. But I will tell you what we will do ; 
we will have a cop)!" of this taken to carry home to your 
parents. The original I would not part with for its weight 
in gold.” 

The brothers grasped his hands. 

“ Joe ! our own Joe !” •’« 

The tea-bell rang, and Agnes and Martha led the way to 
the dining-room. 

Mr. Hilton offered Alfred a lucrative situation in his 
counting-house, but Miles would not hear of it ; he wanted 
him himself. Martha was to have a home with Bernard. 
Hughy, seeing he could not have Mark, begged to have 
Ellen ; only Clara was left to the widow. At length the 
visit ended. Fanny and her children accompanied Miles 
and Bernard to their Western home. 

About a year after the death of Edith, Agnes and Walter 
were married. It was a beautiful morning, the clouds 
seemed rolled back, that a fair sky might smile down upon 
them ; the cold winter was past, and the balmy air of 
spring was over the earth. 

Except the two families, Jane. Graham, and Father Wil- 
liams, no one was present. As Agnes stood before the 


VIEW.S- OP CATHOLICITY. 


4Y5 


altar, and pronounced the vows which made her the wife 
of Walter Starr, every particle of color left her face, and 
she became white as the snowy veil on her head. She 
felt how weak she was, of herself, to render another happy. 
Since the morning she first resolved to rise above her be- 
setting sin, how many times had she fallen ; how many 
times had the scornful glance returned to her eye, and the 
cold, haughty words escaped her lips ! How had she wept 
and prayed, and, alas, after two or three trials, again fallen ! 
Could she depend on herself? No; of herself, she was 
weak, wretchedly weak. But, as Father Joseph had often 
told her, God was strong, and all powerful to sustain her ; 
she must throw her burden o#him, he would support her, 
and carry her safely through every trial ; the sin of years 
she could not expect to conquer at the first struggle, but 
God in the end would conquer for her. As the bridal ring 
encircled her finger, and Ifeind in hand she knelt with Wal- 
ter, to receive the nuptial benediction, she placed her weak- 
ness before the Lord, and besought him to be her strength 
and support, when temptation and trial gathered around 
her. Assured* and comforted, she arose, and, although still 
very pale, with a calm, subdued bearing, received the con- 
gratulations of her friends. Warmly, Father Williams 
grasped her and Walter’s hands, and wished them all 
happiness. To Walter, Father Williams was inexpressibly 
dear. He had known him from earliest childhood. Being 
the eldest of the children, he remembered well the morn- 
ing he poured over his own, and his parents’ heads, the 
saving waters of baptism, and, he, too, had been chosen to 
receive into the Church grandfather and grandmother. 
Dear, very dear to the Graham and Starr families, was the 
kind, venerable Father Williams. 

Immediately after the ceremony, Walter and Agnes, ac- 


476 


AGNES ; OE. 


companied by Mr. and Mrs. Hilton and little Mark, started 
for the West, on a visit to the Connor family. On their 
return, Walter settled in New York, and, as had been 
anticipated, from his talents and energy, soon rose to the 
highest distinction in his profession. The yeai following, 
Mr. Hilton retired from business, and, so as to be near his 
daughter, he removed to New York. 

Fourteen years have passed, and again we glance at the 
characters of our story. Alfred Clement, choosing the pro- 
fession of his uncle, became a physician ; Martha and Ellen 
married well. Old Mr. and Mrs. Connor, and Fanny, or 
the widow Clement, were «illed home, the second year 
after Mr. Hilton’s visit. Three years after their baptism, 
grandfather and grandmother were also called home, and 
Becky Starr, having piously closed their eyes, felt no longer 
a tie bound her to the worlds Resigning wealth and 
station, she became a Sister of Charity, and is known in 
religion, as Sister Mary Joseph. Jane Graham married a 
pious Catholic, and settled near, her parents."" Of her 
brothers, one became a farmer, and remained on the home- 
stead, the other entered his cousin’s law office, and was 
just admitted to the bar, and settled in New York, as 
Walter was appointed Minister to Naples. Agnes accom- 
panied her husband to Europe, and on her return, found 
another tie linking her to the Connor family. Henry 
Graham, her cousin by marriage, was married to Clara 
Clement. From her mother’s death, she had found a home 
in Mr. Hilton’s family, and there Henry became acquainted 
with her. But little Mark — you are not forgetting him ? 
certainly not. Mark, so pious, so gifted, so full of love to 
God and man, rejoiced that he had been chosen to serve 
at the Tabernacle, to extend that faith, which, eighteen 


VIEWS OF CATHOLICITT. 


477 


centuries ago, Christ founded, and his apostles preached. 
On his twenty-third birthday, he was ordained. Listening 
to his eloquent and affecting discourses, many a wavering 
one has been confirmed in the Faith, many a sinner called 
back from his evil ways. And, true to Martha’s prophecy, 
Agnes rejoiced, and was proud, that the gifted and inde- 
atigable young Father Hilton was her adopted brother. 


THE END. 





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